


The Assassination of Raylan Givens as Told to the Outlaw Boyd Crowder

by likecrackingwater (1thetenfootlongscarf2)



Category: Justified
Genre: Western
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2019-08-05 09:14:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 66,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16365050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1thetenfootlongscarf2/pseuds/likecrackingwater
Summary: A story of split difference; Harlan Then and Harlan Now.*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *They say in Harlan CountyThere are no neutrals there.../Which side are you on boys?Which side are you on?- "Which side are you on?" Florence Reece





	1. Chapter 1

_It was wild country, rough, cut by many small streams, heavily timbered, country but it was my kind of country, the kind where I'd grown up. Ride the River by Louis L'amour_

* * *

  _Then_  

There was a time when people loitered in the East Coal Fields of Kentucky. They would take time coming from the puddle up the holler to their homes, letting the thin cut of the moon show the way, the craggy hillsides making shadows sharp. Time was that a man would walk up unmolested, his wallet shut and himself not left gunshot along the side of the creek - cheek of it, the creek being the road and the water both, everything to steep to surmount, up through Mount Pleasant County. It was to be called Closplint decades ahead, but at the time was just a sparsely populated corner near the home-rule region of Holmes Mill. 

Here was a quite quiet morning, the trees turning burnt colored as the winter crept down from the North; the ground was beginning to freeze at night. The roar coming across the Virginia side that morning might have been the mine, might have been the moaning of the wind in the trees so Pastor Gary Shackleton gave it no mind. He was heading up toward town on account of Billy Wayne Anderson, Sr. looking for advice. One of his daughters had gotten in the family way and word was it might have been a man living in the bachelor house out by the Shortt Gap. The man's come and gone and left Anderson, Sr. at loose ends. Shackleton had given a homely about homeyness and domestic duties not a month past so he was heading up to gave advice, him having a wife and perhaps a spare room for a while, simple duties to take a child's mind off these sorts of trouble. He was just following the road out of holler past the third switchback when he spotted the body.

He was sure it was dead, being not just the pastor but having served a time in the War. So he approached quiet-like, calling, "Hello! Anyone in need of assistance?"

He hadn't expected a holler back, "We'd be much obliged!" The voice sounded local enough, cheerful despite the circumstances.

Pastor Shackleton hurried over. He was wearing boots the didn't grip the dirt too well but made good time. The body was shirtless but wearing new blue jeans. It was scuffed with dust, hair matted with blood and neck twisted - under him was a man very much alive. 

"I don't suppose you can lift him off?" The trapped man asked. He had dark eyes, expression uncomplicated. It must have been painful to be pinned by the bulk of a dead man. Pastor Shackleton pulled as the man pushed, together managing to roll the body a ways a way. They shook after. "Thank you kindly," said the live man. He grinned. "I don't suppose you know just where we happen to be?"

"Not entirely," replied the Pastor, "but I can say I'm heading towards Evarts by way of Dizney."

"Well, my friend," the man replied, "I happen to be wanting to head that-a-way myself. Don't suppose I could keep you company?" He ran a hand  though his hair. He was of a height, not that it made Shackleton nervous. Not at all.

The Pastor looked at the body doubtfully. "I imagine we will be delayed in Diznay, having to call in the law about this here dead one."

The man rubbed his hands down his trousers. He sighed. "Why don't you give 'em a call then. Imagine they'll be here in no time."

"Ain't be up this a-way in a while, have you stranger?" The Pastor shook this head, "No bother. No phones out here yet. Hear they've gone a put a line in Lexington - or maybe down Virginia - but Diznay has no post office yet, not even a wire. We'll be leaving this poor soul for a spell."

The man pulled something from is pocket, looked at it quick. Compass, then, and his mouth twisted in distaste.

"It's only five hours on the outside," the Pastor encouraged. "I've done this a time or two, once you get going it's not time at all. You need to get word to anyone?"

The gaze the man gave him was considering. The he pulled out a billfold, showed the Pastor his star. "Don't suppose I can reach the Marshal office from there?"

"Afraid not." The Pastor was encouraged by this turn of events. "You'd have to made Evarts at least, maybe even Pineville."

"Goddamn it." The Marshal swore. Then he glanced over, not shameful, just rueful and a bit amused. "Fine then, fine. Lead the way..."

"Shackleton." They shook again. "Pastor Gary Shackleton."

"Well, I'm Raylan Givens, Deputy Marshal. Lead on, Shackleton." He laughed to his-self.

They set off, sun still low in the morning, making their shadows led the way. 

* * *

_Then_

They were bedding down on the second night. The Marshal hadn't spoken much so the Pastor entertained him with the goings on he was privy to - the years old surrender by Lee, the telephone and its novelty, waxing poetic about the Marshal service out the Dakota and Montana way. 

"You have much interest taking up out that way, Marshal?" The Pastor eventually asked. The fire was small, just enough for eating by. They had settled for some hard bread and dried meat. The Marshal had been disappointed to find that Shackleton didn't drink much - if even - and didn't carry on his person.

"Not in the slightest. I was out in Florida, and before that Utah."

The Pastor looked at him with renewed interest. "I've heard all sorts about the religious camps out there, in the desert, digging for Zion. Thinking Christ came to America to take a look around."

"Didn't pay much mind to all that," the Marshal admitted. "Was there for the job, is all. Not much in the way of camps or religion or excitement from either. Besides the kidnapping and bigamy were local concerns." He grinned. "Not too much of that here I figure?"

"No, but I am heading to alleviate some ills."

"Yeah, the girl. You've told me, in more detail then I care to know, about those personal matters. You're a bit of a loud mouth, aren't you?" 

The Pastor did his best not to be offended. "Now, Marshal, I'm only trying to alleviate the weight of our journey with a little telling..."

The Marshal grunted, angry. "You told me five hours, and I have mind to leave you here on account of us not being nearer to Diznay or Zion or any other God-forsaken patch of land that doesn't have you on it!" When the Pastor puffed his chest, readying a reply, the Marshal snapped "Don't take it personal!" and moved back from the fire, his back to a tree and hand resting on his pistol. 

The Pastor stirred the fire, guttering it. It threw up a billow of arid smoke and set him coughing. The Marshal tipped a hand over his eyes while setteling into sleep. 

They didn't speak the rest of the night. 

Come morning they were just outside Diznay, bitter with each others company. They parted there; the Marshal skirting town for one reason or another. The body he brung with him was given a poormans funeral along with a few others just outside the town limits, unnamed and none called after him.

* * *

_Now_

Art Mullen clicked his pen a few times. He didn't want to sign the damned thing but the FBI was pushing, with more pressure coming East from Washington. Not too much mind, but it had been on six years. Winona Hawkins and the living Givens had been notified five years on, a certified letter to the Givens household and the motel - last permanent address - and follow up like clockwork every few months to all of the regular places Raylan might have haunted. For the first year Harlan had been combed like a dog with nits, the mines coughing out men who would then sower the hills and hollers, an odd whip-up of excitement when the towncar was discovered way out by the Virginian line. It led to nothing besides the use of a chopper for three long days. There was a rock covered in blood; it came back typed to a lower level shitkicker named Kenny Talon. On the lam out of Utah, God only know what he was doing that far North.  

When the Staties pulled a battered white hat from the bottom of the holler Art could feel anger dogging him every time he drove the three hours out to Harlan. Crowder had been vocal for a few weeks then went to ground so thoroughly even his kin couldn't find him. Ava was cutting hair the third year into the wait when Art finally stopped by. 

"I don't suppose you might have heard from Raylan?" He would have been hat in hand, but he was going bald and he no time for niceties besides.

Ava had huffed, abandoned her client under a pile of clipped aluminium strips. He followed her back to the staff room. When she had checked the coast, from what danger he couldn't fathom, she sighed and rubbed her temples. "Look, Marshal Mullens, I'm appreciative to all that you've done. I don't mind you coming and going, ad I know you care about Raylan - I care about Raylan! - but he ain't been here and no one's seen him. Unless he got kidnapped by those ... those people Bo had working for him out of Miami and they gave you a postcard with my name on it... I just want you to leave me alone. I've got nothing and no one, seeing how my tenant left almost two years ago and that's all I know, Marshal, I swear it." She didn't cry. She wasn't the type. Art left her alone like he promised.

So, that was the last time he had gone to Harlan. He sent Tim and Rachel a couple of times, then Dodson, and then it was just the shit detail for the new kids that rotated though. At four years the AG sent down Vasquez with the papers. They published the notification, waited for movement on the bank accounts, then Judge Reardon signed the damn thing. 

Death in absentee, following Ky. Acts ch. 57, sec. 1, 422.132 - the AG pushed for falling off a mountain grounds enough for a catastrophic event. Art would just as soon kept the file open but no one bothered to fucking ask him. The Service paid out the claim and then the locals put an empty box next to Francis Givens and in attendance was everyone from Dan Grant of the Miami Office to the Bennett kin and kinnith. One year on from that Arlo was a shell of himself with Helen keeping him alive though spite. The whole of hillbilly country was closed to the federal level again. 

This was just the icing on the cake - the estate of Raylan Givens, one year on, settling with the Commonwealth of Kentucky for failure of care. That hadn't found a body so the state appointed rep took it upon themselves to kick up this last bit of shit over the Service's shoes. Fuck 'em, Art decided. Fuck all of them. No body, no decant burial, not even able to give Helen his star because it had fallen off then damned hill with the rest of him. 

He signed off and had Tim carry it down to Reardon's office. It would be on the National desk in two days. 

* * *

  _Then_

Raylan had left the pastor and his bullshit far behind. He cut straight to Evarts. The whole mess felt like a long fever dream. He had passed a few homesteads, wooden shacks, which regardless of the hour had persons sitting listlessly around. The kids scrambled through the dirt, thin to a man with dark accusing eyes. He might have stood out earlier in the week but he hadn't washed. No knowing what had happened to Talon's shirt and considering the state of the roads and his cell phone he imagined there would be little in the way of forensic follow up. 

He didn't go much for science fiction, had agonized over the damn phone for days, until he took it apart and burned it after the pastor has slept that last night on the road. He had been a prissy fellow, and vinegar and self-richness. Nothing left of it to be puzzled over as far a Raylan could tell. he had buried the remains under the fire to be sure. 

Figuring something and believing it were two different things. It was one to be walking along, in days-old socks and jacket slung over on shoulder, expecting the asphalt road to suddenly appear like a carpet and quite the other to see a woman bathe, indifferent, in front of her house as children howled around her. She had hollowed eyes and didn't smile when he tipped his hat to her. 

Evarts didn't have a post office. It wasn't even a town - not in any official capacity - just a collection of buildings. A man sitting on the porch of an undefinable business looked up as Raylan walked down the street. 

Having nothing better on, Raylan approached. He was heat sick and needed to get some water in him. The man didn't offer any, just looked him over quiet-like. "What you in business for?"

"I'm in the business for getting to Harlan. Needing to talk to the law there."

The man squinted, spit at the ground. He was lacking teeth, sucked his lips into the spaces between. "Needing the law for what? We don’t have much use for them here."

"That so." Raylan looked around. For it being midday there was little activity. 

"Most of the boys gone to dig coal out West." The man said, unprompted. 

"That so." In the window was a shadow that moved slow towards the door. Raylan shifted his jacket to free his hand, rested it on his gun. The man was staring to look away, casual like. Nothing personal in it. Raylan didn't have the urge to get shot so let his hand drop, cocked his hip back. "Mind telling your friend to step out so's we can talk? I'm a friendly sort of guy."

It was a woman in the doorway. She had a shotgun cradled like a babe, her mouth twisted from a crooked jaw. Her dress was ragged at the bottom. They could have been cousins, her and the man, thin and hunched with narrow faces.

"Don't suppose you've got any water?"

"Suppose we don't," she replied. The gun wasn't cocked. It looked new enough, shiny with a double hammer in the back. That about settled it in Raylan's mind. He was mad or had been kicked back to where smokeless power was a bit difficult to get. He rocked back on his heels, felt the stiffness of the shirt on his back.

"Just need to get to Turner Branch," Raylan replied, nice and easy. That got a reaction - some surprise from the man, the woman just pointed north-ways. 

"Go on, now." She called out. "Get before I put one in you." 

Raylan tipped his hat to her. "Ma'am," then started onwards. Would just need to follow it West a couple of hours. He had done it as a boy, at night on the 38, racing from the mine on home while the sun to his left sunk well behind them hills. 

* * *

_Then_

He hadn't expected to recognize much, coming out of Evarts like he had, but things kept turning his head. Not buildings so much, but the shape of the slopes, making it round a curve and seeing the same view from when he was young, exactly like he remembered. It had tripped him up something awful when he had first come back from Miami. Avoiding Arlo might have been a motivation but he hadn’t wanted to see what he remembered decaying out in the open like it had. 

It was the opposite now - everything over-bright and pristine, the sky expansive blue and the air clear. The trees towered with low shadows. The sun was disappearing fast so he shrugged on his jacket. Raylan could smell himself, bitter sweat and a sour mouth. He kept to the creek, scooped shocking cold water to rinse and spit. It left his mouth gritty with silt. There was something following him for a while and it stopped him sudden to see a couple of wolves dart past, cutting across the water and away. He jumped a crick deep enough to put his foot in right up to the knee, leaving him cursing and limping awkwardly. He had fumbled his way out. Was defeated for a few minutes by the situation. 

There wouldn't be anyone waiting for him - hell, there hadn't been Givens in Kentucky until 1910, when the coal come up from the company mines. Raylan bitterly tugged off his boot. Water poured out and when he walked with it on the leather complained. It wasn't fair. Not fucking fair in the goddamned slightest. He liked the gunslinging just fine, be he also enjoyed a car and a goddamned ice cream. He didn't remember  _Gunsmoke_ all that well despite it leaving a hell of an impression but Matt Dillon never had this horseshit to deal with. Raylan would wait weeks to go to Aunt Helen's to sit feet away from the set and watch re-runs, the whole thing feeling thrilling for managing to avoid Arlo for a night and getting him angry with jealously; there the bad men died and the widows had clean houses and the boys were left well enough alone. It was getting cold and he just hit Kitts Creek because suddenly he could see clear across the holler; there was Harlan in her glory, Martans Fork  glinting on the right - on north to the Cumberland River. No one there, nothing for it but damned despite it Raylan's hart lodged firmly in his throat. Five fucking days on the road and there it was. He was almost home. 

It made him go a bit faster. Gun heavy on his hip and hair clumped greasy but he was almost there. The last thirty minutes saw the sun leave the sky proper, a big clock hanging off a pharmacy showing it just gone four. He needed a watch, a pair of socks, a fucking bath. Instead he walking along the main drag. Like getting his head kicked in. He thought he saw Ava Randolph from the back, did an awful double take when a man strolled past looking a hell of a lot like Grant Nelson, who died in a collision with a deer junior year. The drinking had't helped his odds any. 

He found the Sheriff's office tucked near the end of the town, sharing a building with the funeral home. He knocked, then walked in, blinking into the lamplight. There was just three desks and only one occupant. It was a man in one of the two cells. He had a bad look about him, hagdogged and simple. Raylan watched him for a moment. 

"You know where the Sheriff's at?"

The man moaned slightly. His eyes were awful red in the poor light, one drooping worse than the other. 

Raylan stepped closer. "Want to tell me where the Sheriff is? Come on, son, I know it's got to be bad for you. Let's say I can get you a drink." 

That stirred him slightly. "I dunno." He tried to stand but didn't quite manage. When he pawed at his face there was a line of drool on his arm. Raylan watched, then tried again. "Say I could pour you one, even a small one. You think you could manage telling me what I need to know?"

The man's eyes rolled hard. "I think..." He took a gasping breath. "I think..." Suddenly he was distracted making he last meal reappear all over the floor. 

"Jesus fucking Christ." As Raylan leapt back the door slammed open behind hin.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"I am trying to ascertain the whereabouts of the fucking Sheriff of this fucking town." Raylan turned to the newcomer. "Which would be you, by happy circumstance."

"It sure would, stranger." The Sheriff was haggard, thoroughly unamused by the floor. "So mind stating your purpose for breaking into my office, making a god-awful mess, and ruining my day as much a humanly possible?"

Raylan showed him the star. "Deputy U.S. Marshal Raylan Givens. Just coming though town. Looking for a place that I might be able to stay the night."

"Sheriff Hagens. Mike Hagens. Suppose you can stay with the wife and I after you wash my fucking floor, Givens." Raylan bit his lip to keep from laughing. 

"Of course. We going to move the prisoner, or..."

"What, that sad sack of shit? He can't even stand up. Wash around him." Hagens crossed over to the only desk that appeared in use. "How long are you planning to stay in Mt. Pleasant?"

"Oh, I'm..."

"Because we just got in five Baptists and I have a warrant here for," Hagens carefully read aloud, "a writ of habeas corpus for one Frank Della... Del las... Del-something-oni. Italian. Need to move him to the city by the end of the month."

Raylan moved over. The writ was crudely done, ink smudged from the press, but it was clear enough - Frank Delcogliano, for three counts of horse theft, thought to be near Mt. Pleasant or Wallins Creek under the assumed name of John Williams. There was no image, just a few lines: of short stature, fair hair, dark eyes, dark complexion. "Seems easy enough." He settled on.

Hagens didn't seem to agree. "I've got to mind 200 persons here and manage whatever assholes live up and down the valley out to the lines on two sides and fuck-all to the north - and nowhere important with more then a hundred in-bred fucks to deal with." Which would be Raylan's kin at this stage - just hillfolk up and down the holler from his mother's side.

"You're not local, I'm guessing." Raylan moved back a bit. Hagens shoved the writ back on the desk.

"I was sent here from the civilized land of North Carolina; where men feared me and I got shit done." Never mind that a decade ago the Carolinas had conspired to burn Kentucky to the ground. 

Raylan eyed him. "Of that I have no doubt. You seem like a consummate sort of fellow." For nothing better to do he took the bucket and asked after the well. It was out back, so he filled it and washed out the floor. It took a while and wore him out besides. The whole of it the cellman slept and Hagens painfully read though the papers on his desk. He had no grasp of Latin, Greek, or last-names more complicated then Smith. Raylan turned him out, scrubbing on his knees with a heavy bristle brush. 

Somewhere on the outside the big clock struck five. Hagens guttered the lamps. Raylan stretched. His back ached something awful, twisting made some parts better and some parts worse.

"We going to leave your friend here?" He asked. Hagens grunted, shrugging on his overcoat.

"He hasn't managed to choke to death on his own vomit, and I imagine he won't start now. Besides, I've seen you clean up his dinner. Unless you managed to feed him again his' belly is as empty as mine, so nothing to worry about until tomorrow. Come on Givens. Daylights' a wasting."

Raylan looked back just to be sure the cellman was snoring in the gloom. He followed Hagens out, snagging a spare hat off the rack by the door and fitting it on his head. It would suit. 

* * *

_Now_

Dr. Barbara Lee Tanner had worked at the University of Kentucky for now on fifteen years. Before that her work had seen her in Central America, avoiding the Panama Conflict while collected samples related to the Late Pleistocene era. She had been up and down Middle America - even cleared an indigenous burial ground for state recognition in South Dakota. So she was familiar with exhuming and examining bodies not in the best repair. With the changes in intrastate funding and county lines in this area of the Commonwealth mass graves were being found in all sorts of locations. Being as there was no coal underneath they had been relatively undisturbed in this part, just into the valley that Dizney perched in. 

A few of the local kids were watching as the grad students sifted the dirt and used probing guns for pockets of air. They had recovered about fifteen remains, an even collection of men and woman about ten feet down to a few inches, when a call came from Brain Dillengar. He was an extract out of Santa Fe, spent his summers in the desert looking for arrowheads or some such nonsense. Barbara hadn't been on the board so she had no strong opinions about what motivated those that applied beyond a work ethic and academics to match. Not local, any of them, her from Tennessee originally but they were still doing respectful work. She walked over to the patch Dillenger was crouched in; there were only thee men in, lay shoulder to shoulder, the student off to the side, holding a wallet in gloved hands. 

"What's the problem Brian?" Barbara asked. "That looks to be in fantastic condition - have you plotted it?"

Dillengar flapped a hand toward the graph at the lip of hole. "Done and dusted, Bar - Dr. Tanner. I'm just... This isn't leather."

"What do you mean? This plot is dated no later than 1890."

"Could they have moved anyone here?" 

Barbra gestured around. The patch was flanked by trees; the iron fencing had fallen away back in the day - the plots had vanished off the maps before the 20th century. "Not this far down, and not without us noticing!"

"No way this is anything but pleather!" Dillengar carefully opened it up. There was a plastic window showing off an battered Utah drivers licence, not yet expired. "Says this guy was born in 1976, name of Kenny Talon and he..." Dillengar turned it over, "needed corrective lenses to drive." He looked up at Barbara in bafflement. "You think we found a murdered person?"

She looked from the wallet to the body. There was just the bones, just the edges exposed, jaw open in a mockery of a grin. She could see the glint of metal fillings. "I think we're going to call the police, and then the Department. I want you to get everyone over here in the next ten minutes. Don't touch anything else."

* * *

_Now_

It was a shit show and she had let her coffee go cold on the table. Now, hemmed in by an FBI suit on the left and Tim on her right, Rachel didn't have anywhere to go. There had been a rush on the DNA so they were packed into the Service meeting room three deep; the FBI and Missing Persons and Treasury and even a couple of people from UK who had pulled Kenny Talon from the ground. The doctor had brought a thick folder outlining their procedures. 

"We had dung down to fifteen. The standard of the time was between six and seven and a half feet. Sediment changes and coal-fall especially have added depth. As the location was uncertain from 1905 onward we can determine that any moment to the graves had not occurred beyond the early 20th century."

"Really," Tim was looking at a thin copy of the dig site. His eyebrows were up, a grin just out of reach. "You saying Talon hit the ground so hard he, what, bounced fifteen miles to Evarts? And then torpedoed into the ground? Raylan must have landed on the goddamned moon."

The doctor pressed a hand flat to the table. "We're suggesting that Mr. Talon was buried sometime around 1870, but no later then 1887. Dizney," and she stressed the name, "halted public burials and had the tax-payed graves interred on the other side of town. I have three students assisting SSA Parnell," she nodded to a Feeb, " and his team comb through records at the county seats. There are also a number of churches in the area trying to follow up on their own records."

"That's all well and good." Art said from the head of the table. He was flanked by Reardon and Vasquez. "But I have to ask - what are we looking for here? A time machine?"

"First, we need to determine who authorized the burial of Kenny Talon; who brought his body from Holmes Mill all the way to Dizney, and then who paid for it."

Rachel scanned her own packet. It was thin of particular, useful information. There was plenty of background on the region and local customs - and the disappearance of 19% of the region's population to a flood in 1881 or 1882. From five thousand to four and back to five just a quickly. It was strange but glossed over. She made a note of it. 

The woman with the Office of the Treasury leaned forward in her seat. She had a severe haircut, going grey at the part in her hair and seemed fine with it. "What we  _need_ to determine is fraud - where did Mr. Givens go, who were his accomplices, and where is he currently located."

"Deputy Givens." Tim insisted.

"Deputy Givens," the agent acknowledged, "who had previously been under investigation in this very jurisdiction -"

"Currently," Vasquez interrupted, "the AG is operating under the presumption that Givens is one of the unidentified bodies that was discovered with Mr. Talon. In addition, we are working to identify all the other remains, second in importance being that of the third body in the grave and then working outwards. Also, time travel is not real."

"And what will that cost Kentucky?" The agent didn't seem upset, just frustrated. "I understand the rush on the Talon remains due to the identification found on his person but if Givens is dead then we can wait the 72 hours. The evidence will be processed correctly."

"If he's not..."

"Leave it Vasquez." Art raised a placating hand. "It's been six years. I know this is very strange - very fucking strange - but we are professionals, are we not? So, I expect us all to act like professionals. The Marshall's Service will take the lead on this, as it's our man missing, with support from Dr. Tanner and her eggheads, and as always our best friends, the FBI. Which means that the line of inquiry currently being trotted out like a show pony by the Department of the Treasury is at best a distraction and at worse a pain in my ass."

"All we want is to speak to Boyd Crowder." There was her hand then, Rachel thought. Trump card - get Crowder, tie Raylan to him, and watch them both hang. 

"All due respect, ma'am," Rachel kept herself composed. Tim fucked around with his papers as she spoke. "I'm going to being driving to Harlan tomorrow, following up with leads this might have opened up. I'd be more than happy for you to come along."

She saw Tim shoot her an angry look but Art had that pensive expression when things went the way he wanted, one way or another. 

The agent agreed, and Rachel promised to collect her the next morning. She left with a brisk goodbye, and one of the grad students walked her out of the office.

"I don't suppose," Art mused, getting to his feet, "we could get our hands on a DeLorean?"

It wasn't much of a joke but Rachel smiled anyway. Had to take their shots when they could. 

* * *

_Then_

They have been living in this God-forsaken place coming on two years, and Alma Hagens was at her wits end. In North Carolina she had seen destruction; the cruelties of war had been visited upon her city and her people. Walking those streets had worried her horribly. She would find herself in a state, lying in bed listless with a barren mind. Reading held no more joy and it was only when her husband found the neat stack of newspapers up-opened on the side table than he spoke to her about it.

"Are you tired?" He had stood in the doorway in deference to her condition. 

She had started back and said nothing. The doctor had suggested the country - so Alma had prepared for her parent's farmhouse or even Richmond- but Mike had accepted a role of lawman out in the land of traitors and backwoods, cockeyed folk. She found them boorish and boring. The wives were simple minded; not a one of them could read.

The girl was bringing in the linens as Alma looked over the food critically. It was simple fare - okra and corn with some cornbread for tricking the body about meat. The chickens were too scrawny due to the last winter, some laying shriveled eggs and not a one for good eating. Nothing like the preening brood back home. The feedlot didn't even sell oyster-shells or remedies. She sighed, checked that the windows were open a letting the cool breeze.  The girl was thumping about overhead. She would do better if she wasn't half-deaf and stupid besides. 

Alma could hang about the porch but being too eager and appearing so were one and the same. So the girl called down, "They're coming up the road!", she wasn't quite prepared to receive guests. It left her flustered. The Marshal was quiet. He kept his head down and ate slowly. The offer of a drink was accepted with more enthusiasm. Mike poured him out a measure. 

"He's come on account of the writ business."

"Really?" Alma smiled at the man. "That's quite exciting. Have you traveled far?"

"From Holmes Mill." The Marshal offered.

"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with it.” She smiled and it felt like it fit her face but Mike looked up from his food with a strange expression. He mouth was clenched, his eyes narrow when he thought she wasn’t looking. She knew he was keeping an eye out because when his gaze met her his face smoothed too still to be natural. The Marshal still had his hat on as he ate. Must have lost some of his manners on the road. Stubble was coming in and his hair was lank towards his collar. His knuckles were embedded with grime.

“It’s outta the ways from here. Far back for a holler that it’s almost in Virginia, being honest. Not a place I went too often even when I was growin' up here.” He paused with his fork hanging. “But that was a while ago, ma’am.” If he was a local it was some pumpkins he was even learned enough to be a pan-miner, let alone an agent in service of the government. She was raised right so Alma just dished him more food. He ducked his head and resumed eating.

“Please, Mr. Givens. Call me Alma. We’re all friends here – law-abiding makes us a quite unique gang in these parts.”

Mark chuckled around his food but the Marshal only grinned politely. “Sure thing Mrs. Hagens. As you say. This is good food, by the way. Thanks for putting me up at such short notice.”

“Nonsense.” Alma patted up her hair. “We are happy to provide. Not many new faces come this way. It’s quiet.” Never mind the dress she was wearing still had creases from being kept away since the move. There was not call for good presentation out in these part. Mike didn’t even take her into town. Just once a month to meet with the ladies affiliated with the civic society while he talked business.

“That why you come up from Georgia?”

“The Carolinas,” Mike corrected. He was mopping up the okra with some bread; particularly absorbed in his task. “North Carolina. I was given a promotion.”

“’Cause of the war?” The Marshal was leaning back in his chair. Alma realized she could only see he left hand, resting besides his fork. There was a stiffness in his jaw like he was keeping something back.

“It was after.” Alma tried to soften the conversation. “I – we – were interested in seeing more of the country, after the Territories opened up. It was so exciting but you know, there are amenities we are too used to.” Amenities there were not available here either. “Three weeks in a wagon, can you imagine?” When she laughed Mike finally stopped eating. The Marshal had relaxed a little though.

“Suppose if you’re gonna aim on getting away from anywhere this could be the place to come. I was the same I figure. Wanted out of here so bad I was posted out in Utah.”

“Goodness! That’s quite the tale.”

The girl came in as Alma spoke. The pie looked good enough, considering it was put together as the men had come up the lane. The Marshal stood suddenly.

“Miss.”

The girl froze. When she looked to Mike first Alma sighed and directed, “Just set it on the table. I’ll serve. You can start with the washing up.”

The Marshal was still standing. He took his hat off, set it gently on the table. Mike was helping himself to the pie. Alma wanted to smack his hands away.

The Marshal gestured to the girl. “It’s alright. Thank you for the pie.” He stayed standing until she left the way she came. Then he settled back down and tugged his hat closer. Alma tried not to stare too openly. How strange.

“I’ll have her draw you up a bath.”

The Marshal raised his eyebrows. He seemed calmer but there was still an undercurrent Alma couldn’t quite figure. “Thank you, missus, I appreciate it. I’ve had a long few days.”

“Tell her about the preacher,” as an aside Mike added, “the one from out by Diznay.” He shoved a bit of pie into his mouth, sucked crumbs off his thumb. “They found a body out that way. A fugitive - and the Marshal went and snapped his neck.”

At that the Marshal took another drink, finishing his glass. “If it’s all the same to you, missus, I’ll ask for that bath now. I’m all tried out. Just point me in the direction.” This smile was wide and friendly. Alma found herself smiling back. Seems like decorum had been restored.

“Of course.” She stood and brushed down the front of her dress. If Mike went to sleep early enough she could sneak back down and eat some of that damned pie herself. She began to stack up the plates. The Marshal did as well, but meant nothing by it, even though Mike shot him one of those looks. As if she would let one of these dishwater people near her bed.

“Follow me.” She led the Marshal and his stink out of her dining room. Come tomorrow he would be eating in the kitchen.

* * *

 

  _Now_

He knows he is good at his job - damned good - and worked his ass off for where he is sitting, corner office in the State Courthouse at the back-and-call of the Attorney General. Was a bitch getting a job with the name Vasquez. Places in Kentucky were more true blue then the Dixiecrat edges of Tennessee and further South, union men with work in their blood and coal in their lungs, who picketed and battled and died for shit as simple as getting paid in cash over company credit. His own father was raised in a farmhouse in North Carolina; just another word for sharecropping, where if you couldn't read you'd never make any money. Just end up sliding from one month of debt to the next. 

Vasquez was a hard worker. He knew it, hell the floor knew it from the way he went after Givens. For all the shit Art gave him it was all above board. Givens reminded Vasquez of other boys he went to school with, whose fathers smacked them around, stunted their emotional growth or whatever. Givens was as much a bully as he bucked against the title. Even in Salt Lake and Miami, hell there were questions in Glynco - shitkicker kid from a shitkicker family with a degree in Criminal Justice, no one as a reference before turning 20. Only emergency contact was his mother's sister (who married his father after she passed - some hillbilly shit if there ever was) despite his mother not being dead yet. Or she had been. Didn't go home for that funeral, didn't ever request leave. No one in the Service was fucking aware until Givens let the news drop. File said Mother's Day rolled around and when asked about it Givens had simply said he wasn't getting her anything seeing as she was died. Official records said she kicked it when Givens was finishing at Glynco but that didn't seem like it was entirely the truth considering she was absent from whatever taxes Arlo bothered to file after 1984. Maybe the old man killed her and buried her in the front lawn. Givens had a chip in his shoulder and backwoods shooting skills honed by excessive hours at the range.

Fact was Marshals were usually sent to their home areas, at least kept to the state they were native too. Givens was the exception as he was a risk. Someone had unofficially flagged him then: at 25 and looking to prove something to no one who gave a flying fuck. David looked at the clock. He had lost track of time again the hour creeping towards six forty. He picked up the phone.

"I'm going to be late," He started with. "I'm so sorry."

"Are you still at the office?" Alba asked. 

"Yeah, yeah I am. This file go away from me. You know that missing -"

"Can you wait the twenty minutes to tell me when you get home?"

He rubbed his eyes then used one hand to navigate the mouse and close all the open computer programs, set it in locked mode, flicked off the monitor. "Absolutely."

"It's tamale night. They'll keep a little while longer, but you girls might eat them all before you get here." He could hear some loud protests in the background. 

"I'm already out the door," David promised. He was trying to get his coat on and not drop his phone. There was a knock, and with no pause Reardon stuck his head in, waved. David nodded at him trying to wrap up the conversation. "I need to hang up but I'm already there, I promise. Love you, love the girls. See you. See you soon, bye. Bye." He thumbed off the call as Reardon sank into the couch. It had come with the office and sagged badly towards the back. A few visitors had gotten trapped a time or two but Reardon was an old hand at this. Most of his weight was perched at the edge, he bad knee clicking. Gut hanging out like a counterbalance. Assassination by rattlesnake would have been crazy for anyone but once Givens was in the office suddenly that shit was commonplace. Harlan - must be something besides lead and coal-runoff in the water. 

When Reardon didn't start David opened the conversation for him. "What?"

Reardon groaned and waved both his hands. "None of them are the Marshal."

David grabbed for the edge of the desk. "None?"

"Not a single one are even related to him. Hell some are related to the local folks - we knew that when we sent the samples off - but there is nothing that connects Givens to Talon after the vehicle."

"So could he have not buried the body?" 

"Who the fuck knows?" Reardon looked around. "You have anything to drink?"

"I keep some gin in the desk." David didn't offer to get it. "Where does this leave us?"

"We follow up on who buried Talon and move from there; they would get tampering, obstruction, impending, maybe even murder if they thew Raylan over to get to Talon. If they moved him even a foot from the vehicle while alive I'd add kidnapping too, just to sweeten the pot. That's just ignoring the crackpot..."

"Temporal displacement?"

"God, don't encourage them. Cannot even believe we paid that doctor to tell us the best option for the federal government was to examine fucking time travel." Reardon seemed to have had enough. He heaved himself to his feet. "What do you even know about that, Vasquez? Any legal precedents?"

"I've seen  _Timeline_. " He offered. He was heading towards the door. Ignoring this fiasco he still have seven open cases, ten pending, and a couple just floating around to keep him up at night. 

"That the one where they go back to the 50s? Sleeps with his mom?"

"It's the one where the guy gets trapped and gets his ear cut off." With the luck Givens had if he went back in time someone would shoot him for being an asshole. 

"Goddammit. I'll need to rent it."

"Research?" David asked as he opened the door. "AG said we're ignoring it anyway. It's all science fiction."

Reardon pulled it shut behind them. He was carry out the gin bottle and David was so busy trying to get his shit together that he didn't see Winona Hawkins until they were all in the elevator. He knew he was a coward because he didn't look at her once the whole ride down. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

_My son, he got out of school and went to work in the coal mines, and we were going to work one day, and he kind of laughed. I said, "Well, Keith, what's funny?"  "Well," he said, "most boys follows the father's footsteps, and here I am, following my mother's. - Bobbie Davidson, They Say in Harlan Country_

* * *

_Then_

The switchback he was walking on hugged the mountain to one side and dropped to nothing on the other. He had a bad gash on his leg but he was more pissed then in pain. Despite pulling the coat over his shoulders he wasn't dressed for the morning chill. The fog was lower, still sunk in the holler and licking up to the road. It was cluttered with rocks so he stepped careful around the ones he could see; still stubbed his toes hard against a low embedded stone. The cloud cover had made it hard to tell the time and his watch broke during the skid. He wasn't have called it a fall, seeing as his feet never really left the ground. 

Few miles back he had passed a low sling house, kept an eye on the empty doorway, the slouching eves and pitted roof implying - in better places -that it would be uninhabited. He knows this part of Kentucky well. Just 'cause it not fit for pig shit doesn't mean people aren’t living in it. Being in Kuwait he had experienced that heat, just endless sand and the sky turning reddish with the wind. The other guys would be scrambling for breathing pro but Boyd had been living with the specter of black lung since he was a boy. Wasn't fear of collapse that got Raylan out of the mine, not like his guys in Lexington expected; people who don't mine always fear the damp, the crushing rock, the methane and sparks. It was seeing men going from the mine to the deathbed but taking years to do it. Gasping all the long while. His ma had a couple of brothers go that way. Looked so small near the ends all shriveled in their clothes with no energy to speak, to sit even. The collapse was just the final bit of convincing.

Arlo and his daddy had been the cunning sort but the mine was everything. They weren't just coal people - they were from Harlan; went to war with the companies and Washington and the damned union breaks. They had been on the lips of everyone from the presidents to Pete Seeger. Down to the truth none of that much mattered. Kentucky now was just sliding back to what it had been before the coal was all dug out - poor and isolated and slipping back in time. 

He was hobbling along, head down and miserable when he come across the Lewises. The children he saw first hollering and running the pigs up out the pens. Some of the littler ones stopped and watch as he approached. One of the boys was driving the leads on the a stick. "Gown! Gown!" and the pigs hollered right back. A girl, looking about twelve, noticed him proper, calling to the house, "Ma! Ma! We've got a man!"

Mrs. Lewis come out the door with a knife. "Want you want?" she called down.

"I'm just goin' on," Boyd called back. "I'm not looking for nothing, swear it." He'd rather keep looking and stewing then strike up a conversation. The older children kept the pigs going but the smaller ones were coming on back to the house, the girl leading them. They all wore frocks so it was hard to tell just what they were.

"Where you going?"

"I'm looking for a friend. Went missing in these parts about a month - two months ago."

Mrs. Lewis crossed her arms. "Where 'bouts?"

"Holmes Mills." She begin to frown so Boyd tried to appease her. "Seeing as he ain't been here I'll just get on."

"Now, hold on Mister." She waved off the children but called the girl over. "Get this man a drink. Come on up, Mister."

"It's alright..." but he come up the incline. His shoes were letting in water.

Mrs. Lewis let him drink some water then settled them onto the porch. It was from a barrel posted just under the tilt of the roof. There was the taste of moss to it. "You have a hand for shelling?" She then introduced herself and her girl, Leah Rae. Boyd did the same in kind.

"I do." Since they give him the drink Boyd helped for a bit, cutting the pod ends and shelling out the peas into buckets. The chairs weren't too uncomfortable, aged to be an ease over a hinder to his back. He was older, he knew, and it might hurt him in the morning. Leah Rae was braiding up her sisters hair. Mrs. Lewis saw him looking them over. 

"There's just the eight of them, six boys. My husband is out towards Pinesville with the oldest. He's going to sign on for flour."

Boyd nodded.

Mrs. Lewis. "I hate to tell you this, son. I can see you've come a long way - what with your clothes and all - but there is no kindness in lying. You need to head on the Diznay. That's where they buried you friend."

The cup clattered to the porch. "What?" Boyd bent to retrieve it but found it impossible to rise again, on his knees. "He can't be dead."

"He is." She was looking concerned. "The Sheriff there brung out the body. I saw them come by myself."

"I would know, Mrs. Lewis. Damn..." Took him twice to grab the cup, set it back on the chair. "I would know. We dug coal together when we was nineteen. We're both from these parts." Anywhere else it would just be rote facts but Mrs. Lewis had a keenness of expression. 

"There are two sides to everything." She replied. 

"There surely are, Mrs. Lewis."

* * *

 

_Now_

Rachel had found Nobel's Holler calmer in the intervening years. Now that there was renewed interest the Treasury agent was being ferried the six hours there and back to Harlan County and the outlying areas almost weekly. Limehouse had been suspicious but him being in the service industry meant he had to be all smiles and catering trays. 

"Time was we wouldn't get so many educated, Washington types this way."

Rachel shrugged. He wasn't so much talking to her as talking at her. She had found his attention waned when he wasn't trying to lay some comradely down at the feet of their surface similarities. She knew that he knew it was trite and empty-handed anyway. Limehouse had to be back running money seeing as he wasn't as stressed around the eyes. She didn't mention it, just ate the pork sandwich and watched the Treasury agent leaf though the books. Rachel kept a neat stack of torn paper-towels under her left elbow.

"Givens never kept money with you?"

Limehouse laughed. "The old man never made the kind of money I would be interested in." Rachel just raised an eyebrow and waited. She knew the value in waiting. She didn't get as far as she had by running her mouth. Not unless it was required.

"What about the son?" The agent had a list and she seemed intent to run down it.

"Heard he died a few years back." He directed himself to Rachel. "Sorry for you loss."

"Thank you." Rachel sipped at her iced tea, nodded over to the agent. Limehouse sighed. 

"He never kept anything here. Would hassle here a time or two."

"For Crowder?"

"For his own reasons. He was the wily type, liked to be involved; he's local - was local - so they liked to send him down as an... What would you call it Marshal Brooks?" Here was the faux-buddy route.

"An emissary?" She took another bite. It was good, what Limehouse could get out of a pig. Might have taken something for Tim but that would give all sorts of impressions she'd rather avoid.

"That's right." Limehouse had a smile like a cat. All teeth and no feeling to it; his eyes were cold. "A snitch. Parading their rube marshal down here to prove that the had some  _insight_  into our local ways." 

Rachel put down her sandwich. "Now, Mr. Limehouse, if you're not being helpful you can at least not disrespect the dead."

"Apologies, ma'am. Seeing how Agent..."

"Carroll."

"Agent Carroll all but implied that those men took up where their daddies left off, I would say that is a bigger insult."

"We have reason to believe we will soon ascertain the whereabouts of Mr Givens." Agent Carroll insisted. Amateur hour all over the damn shop. A half dozen heads looked their way. Limehouse dropped the act.

"What did you say? You might know where the Disappeared Deputy is?"

Rachel drained the ice tea grimacing at the bitterness at the end. "What I can tell you is that we are reopening the investigation. That doesn't mean he's alive, just that there might be new leads."

"Well," Limehouse looked at a loss for a second then reached over and shook her hand. "Best of luck Deputy Marshal Brooks. Let us know if you come by this way again."

"Thank you." She smiled tightly and hurried Agent Carroll out. 

* * *

 

_Then_

Frank Delcogliano hadn't been in Wallins Creek. Word came that he had been arrested in Livingston. Raylan had gotten a desk  _de facto_  in the office. The drunk, Ruben Emmet Cole, was a common enough sight. The letter firmly suggested that Kentucky send someone down to Tennessee to collect. 

"You might as well go," Mike pressured him again. "You'll get paid for the travel. Remember: serving papers, $2; arrests, $4; mileage, 5¢ per mile. That gets you $7.55 extra just this month."

Raylan looked at him over the edge of the daily paper. "You want to try that math again? You seem to have forgotten, I think, the need to drag his sorry ass to the court - you know how far that is Ruben?"

Ruben was in no condition to answer.

"Seeing as it's just about the same distance down as up I'd be collecting fifteen even. Plus the arrest. Plus serving the papers. If I was going - which I ain't and I don't want to be telling you again. You can hare after him hither and yon. I don't much care."

Mike gave him a considering look. "They didn't advance your pay?"

"They did not." It wasn't had getting the right papers to make himself exist in the eyes of the law especially with the weight of a lawman as a reference. Posting the request to the Service took some time and Raylan was prepared to be arrested. Maybe hung to prove a point. Instead he was installed as town marshal as well and wasn't needed to move much of anywhere. Least they took the time to post his new badge and official duty papers. Least this did not see him having to go to Georgia to re-cert. Least he didn't have to go west and crawl into a mine.

"He went and shot a lawman. I know how much you hate that."

Raylan looked pointedly back at the paper. There was a lengthy advertisement for soaps. Shipped especially from Ohio. "Seeing as how I am not inclined to walk I'll leave this very important job to just about anyone else. What else is going?"

"There's going to be a teacher installed by way of Sukey Ridge. Mayor is mighty pleased." Mike stood and collected some coffee from the pot on the stove. "Have you thought of renting a horse?"

"I had not. As I am not going - and I have not been issued one, do not ask me again."

"You want a horse, Marshal?" Ruben had finally woken up. "My brother's got a horse. He's a mean son of bitch through."

"Your brother or the horse? Don't matter." Raylan pointedly set the paper aside. "Seeing as I am not interested in a horse or..."

"He also has a room."

That made Raylan pause. Living with the Sheriff and his wife was a daily trial. He woke up early, made his own breakfast, packed lunch and dinner, washed up and was walking into town before the man himself had started down the stars. The girl he only saw on occasion. Didn't even get her name but he pegged her at around fifteen and seeing as she didn't look like a local Raylan had the suspicion that she was brung up from the Carolinas with the rest of the packed goods. 

He knew that the wife, Mrs. Hagens, was lonely and beat on the girl - not that the two were connected events. Mrs. Hagens didn't come to town, didn't go to any of the small church circles, just seemed to consist of complaining and keeping indoors. Raylan didn't like her too much. Figured she could tell that too. Was pretty pointed about noticing he was local and she ain't. Christ, the look on her face when she caught him reading on the wrapped porch one evening few weeks back was enough to piss anyone off. That, and what had transpired. 

He had been in the first ten pages of  _Roughing It_  when she startled upon seeing him sitting there. In her defense he hadn't been on the chairs and was lounging against half dressed. Shaving as he had meant there was a mustache starting on his upper lip and it annoyed him greatly. 

"That is one of Mr. Twain's un-illustrated works." She had said.

"I noticed." He pointedly turned a page. "Didn't figure you and him had similar interests, seeing as he didn't approve of slavery and the beating of children."

"How dare you," Mrs. Hagens had hissed. Seems those Southern charms had limits like anything else. "This is my home and you will not disrespect me here."

"Then I figure you can abstain from hitting that girl. Seems to me that turnabout will be harsh if you do. I'll tell you this, you raise a hand to her again I will not stand for it."

"You won't, will you Mr. Givens? I want you gone!" 

"I'll pass along your request to your husband..." and he had, politely. They were lawman but from singular cultures and it would be better to not spend time avoiding Mike at home. Might be misconstrued as causing offence and all. Mike had agreed and now there they are, with an offer of a room and a son of a bitch. Two things missing from his life for sure. 

Mike slapped a hand to the table. "You have a charmed life Marshal Givens  - a room and a horse." He let Ruben out of the cell. "Go on and get you brother. We'd be pleased to meet him. Very pleased." 

When he was gone Raylan picked up the paper again. "Didn't know you disliked me that much Mike."

"I know what you said to my wife." Mike slammed his cup on the desk. Coffee spilled across the surface and caught the bottom of the paper. Raylan shifted his chair back. He didn't reach for his gun. Mike was pacing, hat being strangled in hand.

"I know what you said. So I'm going to help install Teach and by the time you come back I'd be less inclined to kill you."

"Don't threaten shit unless you pain on following through, Hagens."

"Fuck you, Givens." Hagens hesitated a moment then stormed out. The door banged behind him but didn't close all the way.

Raylan waited for a moment then pulled  _Roughing It_  out of his desk drawer. He was almost halfway done. 

* * *

 

_Now_

Leslie had Bible Study on Wednesday nights. Art was in the habit of picking her up but he left work a little early and joined her.

"How's it going?" She asked over the boxes of stale doughnuts. In her hand was a herbal tea. Art just took a water and followed her to the circle of folding chairs. They had taken a short break and he was just in time for the last prayer.

"It's alright. I just been very tired."

Her gaze was a little critical. "If you got to bed before midnight that might help, sweetheart."

"I know." 

It seemed like the usual suspects where here; the pastor was just taking a seat. He smiled around, welcomed then all by name.

"Today we're going to close with a prayer from St. Francis of Assisi. I'll read it out and we can discuses, sound good?" There was general agreement and so he cleared his throat: 

"Lord, make me a channel of thy peace, that where there is hatred, I may bring love; that where there is wrong, I may bring the spirit of forgiveness; that where there is discord, I may bring harmony; that where there is error, I may bring truth; that where there is doubt, I may bring faith; that where there is despair, I may bring hope; that where there are shadows, I may bring light; that where there is sadness, I may bring joy. Lord, grant that I may seek rather to comfort than to be comforted; to understand, than to be understood; to love, than to be loved. For it is by self-forgetting that one finds. It is by forgiving that one is forgiven. It is by dying that one awakens to Eternal Life." He paused then trued to the woman next to him. "Would you like to start, Laura?"

Art tried to pay attention. It had been a long week, though. A long month. A long almost-six years. He was been close to just cutting a running a few times, only Leslie knew how close he came after speaking to Helen. The woman had seemed so worn down, so angry at everything all at once. There was nothing he could do, then or now, to make it easier. Which made dragging her all the was to the office tomorrow seem like the worst kind of idea. He was no Raylan but Rachel had called from the road and it would be no time at all until the news reached her ears. Small towns and smaller circles. 

Leslie gripped his arm. When they got out side it was misty, a rain so light he could only feel it. 

"What do you need, Art?"

"I need a drink and a good night's rest."

"Alright. I'll drive."

****

Being honest about it, he was friendly with Raylan in that professional way one get with coworkers. He and Winona would come over for shindigs but it was apparent that Raylan didn't fit in with the Georgia crowd, even being newly married and the center of attention. The Marshal's were a diverse as any federal agency but their home-grown policy meant that their campus was a bit  _Southern Living_. The man had been out in Salt Lake which was mostly assets and prisoner transport across the deserts but even then his reputation as a shooter dogged him. Here, in Lexington, his reputation had shifted again. To be from eastern Kentucky was to be known. Hell, sending him down country was a signal even if Art hadn't understood all the implications at the time. All blood-feuds, medieval family-ties type shit. Rachel might be aloof and Tim amused but it was different staring down cyclical poverty in their nice clean break room. That cycle being Helen Givens. 

She hadn't gotten much more grey but there was certainly age on her face. Arlo was being kept on a short leach according to the local law. His forgetfulness had stopped being an act a few months ago according to the grapevine. So she had come alone, possibly in her most professional outfit which was blatantly out of date.

"What can I help you with Marshal Mullen?" Her hands were resting on the table. They did not shake.

"Can I get you a drink?"

"Yes. Bourbon. No ice." He had meant water, maybe coffee.

"Of course. I take it the same way." Art poured them a measure. "I appreciate you making the drive."

Helen laughed. "It's fine. Just tell me what I'm doing here. I don't have time with all this whispering nonsense."

"We have reason to believe Raylan Givens did not die six years ago, or at the least did not just up and vanished out by Holmes Mill." She looked heartbroken but he soldiered through the rest of it. "We are officially reopening the investigation. If you have any information about him we could really use anything you might know."

She rubbed at her eyes and Art ignored the few tears that escaped. "I don't know anything. I swear. All this time, or...?"

"There has been new evidence. That's all."

"God." Helen rubbed a thumb on the table. "I don't know what to do." She looked confused for a moment, then bitterly sad. "I don't even know who to call. Lots of people came to the funeral but I don't think one would care a lick about this."

"Not even Crowder? Heard he went to ground."

"You heard wrong. About four weeks after Raylan went missing, about the time they found the car, he was combing the ridge-lines day and night. Used to call me at crazy hours, asking after places they used to drink." He poured then another. She drank in one go so her gave her a third.

"They used to drink at? Like Audrey's?"

Helen shook her head. "They worked the mines, not much to do outside of dig and drink. When Raylan's mother was alive she would hate to see him drink in front of her so they would go out to the woods - just beers and being shitheads. Wasn't until the mine fell in on them that things changed. That's beside the point." She took a sip. "He up and vanished."

"We were under the impression he might have gotten in too deep with Detroit or maybe Florida." Art left it open as he could.

Helen just shook her head. "None of that. He was at Ava's and everyone knew he was on thin ice. Boyd called once to say he was gonna be out near the West Virginia line and just never made it back."

"Know where?" Art pressed.

"No." Helen sighed, shook her head when she saw his face. "And would I tell you if I did? Yeah, I would. This point I am too old for this bullshit."

 Art didn't pour her another, just let her sit and collect herself. They were the old guard.

* * *

  _Then_

Mike looked over Teach critically. He had been at Diznay for a few days waiting to be collected. He did seem like the teaching type, used big words and carried 'round a whole trunk of books. Even got himself a fancy pocket watch and fancy glasses. He looked worn-down. Badly used, like he'd had a hard go. They met over a mid-afternoon drink.

"The biggest post office is where?"

"London. It's got just about anything that one could need. But Pineville was made country seat, and we got the courthouse in '71."

"I'll need to order some more books." Teach had ordered a bourbon but drank it down content to watch Mike with his big unblinking eyes.

"You seem to have enough," Mike gestured with his glass to the bulging case. He got a withering glare in in response.

"I can tell, due to your tone, that you are not one of the few I can rely to step in if I needed assistance at the school. Seeing to the needs of the minds of children is a complex, if rewarding, endeavor but whose particular minutia you lack."

"No offence meant, Teach. My wife enjoys reading. Hell, the marshal always has his nose in the paper, so you'll be in fine company."

"The Marshal?" The teacher straightened up in his chair. He said it like a name instead of a title. "Would he happen to have a name?"

"All men happen to have a name." Mike parroted back the tone. Teach smiled tightly but had hard eyes. Mike cut to the chase. "His happens to be Givens."

Teach let out a whoop. "God damn!" He smiled so big Mike could see all his teeth. He had an awful lot of them. "God damn that is the best news I've heard in ages. Over three months but it feels like years. I'll buy you a drink, I'm in that good of a mood. What do you want? It doesn't matter, it's all the same." Teach slapped the table and laughed to himself. "Of course. I should have known." He dragged his chair awful close and hissed. "I'm only buying you the one but savor it, my friend. You have singularly delivered me. Thank the Lord, and thank you, Sheriff."

Mike was disturbed by the sudden change in direction, of the conversation and the mood. "Sure, sure Teach. Thank you."

Teach slapped the table again. "What a day." He left for the bar while Mike nervously picked at the edge of the table. Collecting the splinters in a pile then scattering to start all over again. Teach came back with shot glasses brimming with whiskey. 

"To friends, new and old." They drank. Mike coughed once, beat on his chest. 

"So, you know the Marshal?"

Teach bared his teeth. "To tell you true I don't know anyone better. I came all this way - all this way I tell you - just to find him. I have been on a journey." As he spoke he seemed to be thrilled by his own words. The whole thing felt off though, like a sideshow. "I have covered miles of inhospitable terrain and cold shoulders to come here, before you and my new occupation. Going straight and finding my dear friend; for I am truly blessed."

"He's not here."

The charm dropped away like an ax-fall. "I can see that, friend."

"I mean he won't be at Sukey Ridge either; he lives just up the road in Mt. Pleasant, as do I, but he's gone down to Tennessee to collect a fugitive. It's almost 150 miles there then he needs to go up to the State court - he'll be back in the better part of a week I'd say, two on the outside."

Teach was leaning back in his chair. "I see, and you came to collect me. Do you expect me to find you benevolent, perhaps? You're not from around here so's you figure I'm some simple sort. Someone to keep in your pocket?"

Mike was aghast, or at least tried to convince Teach he was mistaken. "No, not at all. It's just that myself and my wife have little in common with the folks around here. I was hoping your acquaintance would liven our spirits. I can see I was mistaken."

"I can see you were." Teach eyed his empty glass. "Are you going to get us another round or should we go?" Mike froze, unsure. "Let us go then, you and I." Teach gestured towards the door. He was back to being friendly and almost conservatively polite. Mike left first and Teach followed close, almost stepping on the backs of his shoes. 

"It's a full day's ride. I took the liberty of hiring a horse for you; you'll need a hat though, keep the sun off." Mike led him over to the horses. They were both dark in color but his own had a pair of white socks. It was the first time he saw Teach off his stride. "Has it been a while?"

"More than a while." The comment was bit out. The horse put its ears back in response. Teach clucked to it. "I'll be fine. Don't give me lip about my seat. Not much call for horses in a mine."

"Of course," Mike mounted as he spoke. When Teach managed to clamber on Mike rewarded him with a hat, flat-topped with a circle brim.

"My." Teach settled it on his head. "This looks like an outlaw's hat." His face was deep in shadow under it.

"Thinking of committing any crime?" Mike was more than willing to go along with this humorous vein. "Best you confess now."

Teach sat heavy in the saddle, reins looped easy in one hand. All sorts of stress left his shoulders; he looked up to the sun then the direction of Sukey Ridge, smiling wide. "I'm a Crowder, son. We're always scheming." Then he kicked his horse into a pace. 

* * *

 

_Now_

Tim hadn't set out to be a Marshal. He was fine with teamwork, even. Didn't have a steady diet of cowboy bullshit - growing up in Texas meant he was grown on a bit more lean towards the cattle barons then the clean cut lawmen. Time came for him to be up for separation and they had to do those stupid career counselling rounds. The Army runs on powerpoints and he didn't want to be in humping desk. So he got his papers, fill out some forms, and waited. Few weeks later he had an offer and by the end of the month was installed in Glynco. Funny how life works out.

Threats were made on the life of Phineas Driscoll who manged to make a number of enemies despite his short stature. The fucking names out here. Francis Deerbourne was riding shotgun. This part of Kentucky was plain flat. Radio was turned to an inoffensive Christian-affiliate music station.  Deerbourne was filling out paperwork braced on his leg as Tim drove.

Driscoll sat forward and opened his mouth.

"Sit back." Tim ordered. Driscoll did, then bent forward and opened his mouth again. "Sit back." He paused. Tim kept an eye on the road. Every time Dricoll was about to speak he bent forward, tipping his face just close enough to be annoying.

"Just yell." Tim advised. "We can hear you."

"Can we stop?" It wasn't an unusual request. But most times they at least tried to butter transport up.

"No."

There was silence from the back. Tim looked to the rear-view window. Driscoll was sulking. "Come on man, you hardly even tried. Least you could have offered us blowjobs."

"Fuck you, I ain't a faggot." Driscoll slouched some more. Deerbourne shot Tim a warning look. Tim shrugged. 

"Want us to change the radio station? We got some rap, some pop, some..."

"You got talk radio?"

"Fuck no," Tim didn't bother looking up. "I hear enough yapping at work. Last thing I want is to hear people talking when I drive."

Discroll had a glimmer of brightness. "We're having a conversation. We're talking."

"Ain't having a conversation. That implies I give a shit about what you're saying." Tim checked then moved a lane over. Deerbourne threw his papers into the footwell and took up his coffee.

"So, we can't stop."

"Not even if your mama was on fire."

"Now that's just mean Mister Marshal. My mama never did nothing to no one, I just ended up disappointing her." Driscoll begin to sob. Deerbourne twisted in alarm in his seat.

"Damn. Never seen you make 'em cry so fast."

"It's a talent," Tim replied as he took the exit. "But, hey. No more talking."

* * *

 

_Then_

Trade off in town was easy enough. The sheer noise of the place was hard on Raylan after the days of quiet, nothing but soft sounds and the creak of leather. The horse was a summabitch. Ruben’s brother was surly but helpful. He was in the last stages of tuberculous and Ruben wasn’t good for anything.

“I’ll just need you to keep the place clean and me fed, when you have mind to,” Richard had said. One of the women in the nearby camps had been doing that service but would suspend it when Raylan returned. Her husband had sent money for her and the children to travel out to Texas.

Raylan wasn’t a horseman; last time he was on one was years ago. Moving with the animal seemed just as awkward now. If he was better it might have even gotten him there faster. As it stood he was lagging and so kept on through the nights, napping in the saddle. He hoped he wouldn’t need to saddle the animal with any speed; could run into issues with that. The horse was a good sized bay. Had a nasty habit of biting as well. Good that the local department provided a mule for Delcogliano. He knew it was going to be his last ride out so Raylan was allowing for the handoff to take a bit of time. The deputies were outside with the prisoner and the animals.

“Appreciate this.” The sheriff was young. He had the look of a banker. This being an elected position in an established town he might have been. “We’re contracting a number of works, if you’d be interested.”

Raylan raised his eyebrows. “I’m a Marshal, son. No need for that kind of talk.”

“The Pinkertons are –“

“Lying, thieving, knee breakers. And I’d know the type. I’ve seen ‘em around.” Raylan set his hat on his head, tugged the brim to settle it. “Thanks for the warning.”

The sheriff smiled limply. “Safe travels.”

Delcogliano was having difficulties getting on and the deputies were being an active hindrance. They all struggled for a bit. The second time Delcogliano fell off Raylan brought his horse over. “Use the stirrup to get on. I don’t want this comedy following me back to Kentucky.”

Delcogliano wasn’t all that old. In his mid-twenties with a boyish face, nothing distinctive about him. He had a good seat on the mule. Made it look easy but Raylan supposed he should, being a horse thief and all. Would have been hung for that but murder made it all that more expectant. They set off from the office, cutting behind the main streets keeping to the residential spots on the North-side of town. They had to stop to let a few cattle down the road. As the heard passed Raylan could feel the vibrations in his chest. The horse put back his ears and grumbled.

“Go’wan.” He urged it forward. “Stop complain’.” He turned to check on Delcogliano who seemed to be doing just fine.

“I’m good, hoss.” Delcogliano waved him on. It took some navigating but they hit the main road toward Kentucky easy enough. The sun was weak and the wind was up. On the mule Delcogliano shuddered but he’d refused a coat and hat. Next transport Raylan’d just force the damn things on.

Even the horse got a bellyful of wind stepping easy on the worn path. They made better time than the carts, making sure to pass at a respectful distance. While the children stared openly there was notice from just about everyone. There was no way to mistake Delcogliano’s cuffed hands or the way he was tied in. When a couple of men looked a bit too long Raylan casually displayed the badge on his belt. If they happened to see the Glock then that was just fine. It urged them on anyhow.

By nightfall they must have crossed back into Kentucky. The horse was doing alright and the mule was keeping pace.

“We’re going to keep up overnight – I’ll get you to the city faster. Sound good?”

“Sounds alright to me.” Delcogliano looked up at the stars. “It’s just nice to be outside. Feel the wind on mine face.” He blinked hard, looked over. “I’d been in that cell on a week’s time. I’ll be hanged at the end of this one. These days between, Marshal, suit me just fine.”

“Glad to hear it.”

The moon was fairly up when Delcogliano spoke again.

“I stole more than three horses.”

“I’m sure you did.” The wind was letting up. It was still cold so Raylan tugged on some gloves. “Don’t image you start right at a felony.”

“I was first done in for battery. Or assault. Not sure which.” He said it  _ass-_ alt, shrugging into the statement.

“Did you hit ‘em or just yell at ‘em?” The horse blustered under him, so Raylan jigged him to the side for a few steps. Wasn’t easy yet but it was getting easier all the while.

“I hit ‘em dead. But on account of me being a kid and him being hard on my mother the law left it alone.” Delcogliano pulled the mule up alongside. Could do it all with his knees – neat trick. “She did end up selling me to an orphanage. That bitch.”

“Maybe she could see you were rotten, Frankie.”

Delcogliano spit on the ground. “Your ma proud of you, Johnny Law?”

“She don’t mind.” There were a few deer near the road. They just stood on stilt-like legs and watched with milky eyes as they passed. Raylan hadn’t thought of her in years. Nothing beyond the abstract. He was angry that she had gone first; it made him think that she must have never got a day’s rest her whole long life. ‘Course he had tried for years to understand it. Took too long to apologize to her about being a bitter, angry kid. Wasted time blaming her for not going and staying gone. Couldn’t make her leave either, coming onto twenty and with a suitcase full of cash courtesy of her sister. Nothing done for nothing.

“Well, good for you.” The mule suddenly twisted and tried to take a bite out of Delcogliano’s leg. “Ah, fuck!”

“Did he get you?” Raylan couldn’t tell.

“Nah, he didn’t. I’m fine.”

“Big teeth.” Just an observation.

“Yeah.”

Raylan pulled up the horse. The mule ambled to a stop. It took him a moment to remember he didn’t have a flashlight and another to fumble out the lantern and light it.

“What you doing?” Delcogliano shielded his eyes from the glare.

“Just checking your leg. They cut my pay if I bring you in damaged.”

“That so?” Delcogliano looked a bit too interested.

“No, but I don’t want to hear you complaining so’s I’ll just cut this off at the head.” Raylan wasn’t expecting the boot toward his face but Delcogliano was tied down so hard he didn’t have any reach.

“The fuck was that for, Delcogliano?”

“You ain’t cutting my damned leg off!”

“’Course I ain’t. It’s an expression, you idiot.” The leg looked fine so Raylan snuffed the light. “Jesus, boy. Did you finish school?”

Delcogliano looked sullen. “What do you think? My ma sold me for six fucking dollars.”

“That at going rate for assholes?” Raylan dodged Delcogliano’s spit. “You cut that out. I ain’t fucking around Delcogliano. My patience is not unlimited.”

He climbed onto horse quick as he could. When he bent over to get a boot into the stirrup proper Delcogliano tried to kick the mule into a faster pace. It squealed and tried to bit him again. Ryalan saw it score into Delcogliano’s boot.

“Ah, shit! Shit-fuck!” Delcogliano wobbled dangerously. “Tried to take my damn foot.”

“Serves you right.” Raylan urged the horse on. “Just stop bothering him, Christ.”

They did alright for a few more hours. Delcogliano got off to take a piss and Raylan covered him with the Glock. Kept him in cuffs just be sure.

“You stay good we'll stop for an ice cream.” Raylan watched Delcogliano twist back on the mule with ease.

Delcogliano eyebrows it his dirty bangs. “Really?”

“No.” Raylan used the saddlehorn to haul himself on. The horse grumbled.“I was kidding.”

“Well, you have a shitty sense of humor.”

“So I’ve been told.” Raylan’s ankle popped deep in his boot. He kept this up he wouldn’t be able to get off when he got back to Harlan. He’d be like a leaper and scatter his parts all over the countryside. “Come on  _hoss_. Night’s a-wasting.”

Under the high moon they kept pointed North with the animals upright and surefooted.

* * *

 

_Then_

Down to Sukey Ridge was a deep dark road. Boyd had ditched the horse and Sheriff in Harlan, electing to walk into his new lodging. It had rained on and off; the hat was good for keeping the rain clear, so Boyd held onto it. The wool of the coat didn’t get sodden as such so he wasn’t chilled except for his hands. There was the stink of loam as he walked but the road was hardpacked so the mud wasn’t a hinder to him. While he might have to dodge a puddle or two the rain bounced right off the ground and into the air.

No street names here. Boyd kept the idea of the location in the forefront of his mind. He saw it soon enough. Whitewashed walls, the shingles neat but layered in snagged lines. It was crouched off the lip of one of the lower hills. This area would become Loyall when the train was brung in, sometime before the first World War. Just an hour on the outside to Harlan proper by walking. Not a trouble at all. Smoke struggled out of the chimney. There was a ruckus of vermin that had taken up residence in the provided house.

“Don’t suppose you can clear ‘em yourself, Teach?” Mayor was peering up towards the ceiling. Something sizable was certainly moving about there. Body turned over the hat in his hands. Finally, he hooked it off the back of a chair. Everything in looked well kept if not outright new. Seems like they had been preparing for a teacher for some time. The windows had glass.

“Won’t be an issue, Mayor. I’ve dealt with a rat or two in my time.”

“Suppose you have.” He was a drinker, with a swollen belly despite his thin frame. His jaws hung lose on his face. There was a stink about him and his hands were oddly clean. Well kept but distended. Boyd looked away. He had been proved a desk and bed with a simple stove for heat. Its bottom was as low-slung as the Mayor’s. There was a simple range on top cluttered with a coffee pot and a collection of pans. A shelf just off to the side displayed a neat four-piece table setting; all metal with exposed edges and festooned with a collection of flowers. Boyd carefully cracked one of the front windows. Dust fluttered in clumps across the floor. Rain splattered the inner-windowsill but was letting in a passage of fresher air.

“This is a nice place, Mayor.” The floor was freshly cut. Pine-smell hung in the room. The oak chest was huddled in the corner by the bed, and he supposed he could hang a sheet for privacy, if it came to that. “I hope that the location for teaching has similar care taken to its presentation and suitability for the students?”

“Absolutely!” The Mayor had clear but distracted eyes. Which meant he was a shit lair besides. 

 "I'm glad to hear it." Boyd pointedly pushed one of the chairs in. It knocked into the edge of the table. "I imagine, being Mayor, you've all sorts of duties to attend to." 

The Mayor nodded. "Yes, yes. You're a keen one, Mr. Crowder, I can see that. We're becoming real respectable around here. Real county our-self and now a town marshal and a school teacher within half a year. Providence," he stressed. "Providence is the fruit of hard works."

"It certainly is. The Lord is righteous in all His ways and kind in all His deeds." 

The Mayor nodded like his head was loose on his neck but he was sincere. "On that happy note I'll leave you to rest, Mr. Crowder. I do hope that you will join us for supper on Sunday, and the schooling can commence post haste!" He chopped the word clear in half.

"Posthaste, Mayor." Boyd smiled with all his teeth showing. "Not a worry."

* * *

_Now_

On the meeting table was a stack of collapsing ledgers. All the bindings were cracked with leather peeling up along seams. They had been hauled up by a middle aged woman with a stern motherly face, swollen and rough skinned. Tim found himself tapping a pen on his blank note paper.

“So you found who brought Talon into town?”

She nodded, “Not just that, I discovered who paid for his interment.”

“I thought the state paid for it.” Tim looked glaceing over to Dr. Tanner who was paging carefully through a list of births.

“The graves were maintained by the local municipality. It was only logical to follow that line.” Dr. Tanner pushed the papers away and opened her notes. “We have recording for the Shackleton family in the region. So that is a confirmation of the ability of Gary Shackleton to inform the locals of Talon’s body and pay for it to be moved.”

“Would they not have moved it and incurred the cost?” Tim rubbed his forehead.

The woman from First Baptist shook her head. “According to our records Pastor Shackleton paid for the funeral but it was an act of charity. So it wasn’t,” she paused, “elaborate.”

“Alright, we know that this pastor brought the news of Talon and then paid for him to buried on the cheap.” Tim waved off the protest. “Nothing wrong with that. But what about Raylan?”

“Well,” the woman’s face scrunched a little. “That’s why I brought them. They’re hard to read and I thought this was what you were looking for. I don’t see anything about Raylan. Thought he died, honey.”

“Yeah.” He took the ledger she offered. “What page?”

“Twelve from the back, on the bottom right.” The woman hauled herself to her feet. “I parked on the meter...”

“You can get your time extended at the front desk,” Dr. Tanner suggested. As she spoke she made to stand behind Tim but he gestured so she took a seat. He hated hovering.

They waited for the door to shut then Tanner pointed at the notation. The recording of the corner was faded out but looked up the page it seemed to be the same man. Looks like Talon had died in an “accident: fall”. The box had Talon’s name and date of death clear as anything. Payment and signed by a Pastor Gary Shackleton on behalf of the U.S. Marshal Service followed by a short line of numbers.

“What’s that?” Tanner angled her phone to take a picture. “I know it’s not the plot. Could it be his DL number?”

“Nah,” Tim ran a hand though his hair. “There’s no letters mixed in. I just...” he awkwardly sat forward and pulled his wallet. His badge dig into his stomach so he tossed it in the table. Driver’s License first. The string was too short. Too short for a passport, not that Talon even owned one. Tanner pushed his badge back over. On a whim Tim opened it. It was right there. “Jesus Christ.” He shoved himself to his feet and hammered on the glass into Art’s office.

He was trying to pull the door open the same time as Art. “What’s the ruckus, Tim? You break that glass you’ll have to buy it.”

“I need Raylan’s badge number.”

“Alright. Give me a minute. Don’t have them memorized.”

Tim followed him, keeping the door open between the rooms. “I’ll relay it to you,” he told Tanner. “You gotta keep track.”

Tanner was already copying the number down from the page. “Ready.”

Art was standing hunched over the desk, tapping away at the keyboard. “3768...”

“3768...” Tim repeated.

“44521.”

“44521.” Tim watched as Tanner checked twice. Her hand was clenched around the pen. He felt his stomach flip hard, like he had missed a step hard.

“376844521. 376844521.” She looked pale by nodded. “We have a match. Possibly of Deputy Marshal Givens made it out of Holmes Mills just went up a little bit.”

Tim sat back heavily into his chair. His mind was blank but he could hear Art, from a distance, shouting down the phone on his desk.

* * *

_ Then _

Left to devices the raccoons creeping close that morning would have made good eating. 

Raylan wasn’t a cook, sure, but his fare was serviceable. It was one of the things he and Winona would fight about; it wasn’t why they broke down but it didn’t help. He would dig his heels in about spending anything. Ate cheap food, never could agree to take out or fast food when there was leftovers to be had. If he was on assignment he would bring back the courtesy soaps and use them until they had to be diluted with water. Resoled his boots for years. Would walk them until there was thin places right under the ball of his foot. Would get so he could feel the floor right there.

She almost threw them out one day, coming at him about it fresh off work. He found Salt Lake dismal. It was hard to relax, while the whole place felt overwhelmed with the Mormon Temple and the plastic brittle faux-perfect presentation. They hadn't even been married then and he hadn't been paying attention.

“I can almost see your sock right now!” Winona had cornered him between the side door to the garage and the counter. It was that rental that made him abhor split level houses.

“I’ll get’em fixed,” he swore. “First thing on Monday.”

She laughed. “I know you don’t have a second pair. What are you going to do? Got to the office in your socks? Barefoot?”

“I’ll get it done. Hell, I’ll borrow something.” He did have a pair of dress shoes that rested in the bottom of their shared closet.

“Raylan, you can buy another pair of shoes. You can be as poor as you like, but you don’t have to be cheap.”

The anger snapped right up his spine. He left before he said something stupid. Did something stupid, going out and drinking until early hours, stumbling to a flophouse. The thought of trading sixty five dollars for eight hours of sleep pissed him off. He ended up staying in the car. Poor sleep, the alcohol making his head heavy and the rest of him weightless. It was one of the worst mornings too; everything over-bright and tilted to give him a headache. 

Now he was holding out for Lexington. Would even pay for a warm bath, forget the bed or a beef dinner. He crammed more jerky into his mouth. 

Squinting from the sun he called to Delcogliano, “Should be coming onto Elizabethtown soon enough. You behave I’ll let you rest up in the local jail while we trade off the animals.” 

The horse was alright but Raylan figured it might have napped while walking. The mule was either dragging or pissed; either way they were losing time. They should have made town an hour ago. Could hear it well and the traffic to and from was encouraging. They were well into Hardin County by out. Delcogliano seemed as pleased as his ride. 

“Don’t see how we need to ride up when we can jus’ take the train. Would be four hours at most.”

Raylan turned more to look him dead on. “Any other reason?”

“Ain’t never been on a train. Seeing as I’m gonna be hanged or hung or- Damn it!” He squirmed in a fit of passion. “Won’t ask for a last meal, if you’re need to offset the cost of the enterprise. I’m fair in the saddle but I’d like a rest a’fore the court gets me kilt.”

“Your bad choices are getting you killed, nothing wrong in that.” 

Delcogliano’s face twisted up like a fist. Was a peculiarly childish expression, considering his age and him being a stone-cold killer. Raylan redirected his attention back to the road. If they did take the train up, he could quarter the horse and have someone take the mule back South. Hell, eight hours round-trip sounded good enough. If he got his hands on a map might even save time getting back to Harlan. Wasn’t keen on the duty so no point to stretching it out. Hagens was the one in it for the attention; if he wanted to hear Delcogliano’s last words it could be sent down by the local office. Raylan shook the though off. He’d hear those himself, he knew. No point hauling a man to the rope to just let him drop in front of an unfamiliar crowd.

“I’ll see what the schedule is like, Frank. It suits our purposes I’ll get you that train ride. Haven’t been on one myself.” It wasn’t the sort of information he’d be giving out. Might have been something he would have droped to Rachel or Tim back in the day – would use to needle Boyd if he was in a petty mood. Didn’t like being used but sometimes he found himself falling to meet those low expectations anyway.

Raylan was so used to the simple wood structures that the long fields leading to a stately rows of brick shop-fronts and wide front plantation houses took him back. There was even congestion in front of a few restaurants. He tied up the horse at the ticket office, kept close to Delcogliano’s side as they entered. A few young women moved past as a flock, their long skits rustling, all light fabric and laces. Raylan cut his eyes away – the dresses made them seem oddly aged. Stern almost with collars to the neck, leaving only their faces exposed. Delcogliano was watching too. Open enough that Raylan almost gave him a kick to keep him moving.

The man behind the glass was small. He looked like every ticket master from every Western Raylan and the absurdity took him aback. It was catching up with him slowly now that he was off the horse. He had his feet planted and his head on straight. What the fuck was he doing? What the  _fuck_  was he going to do? There was no time to panic. The man was talking, “… heading?”

“Lexington. Need two – one one-way, one return.”

The man brushed at his moustache, pointed and sternly waxed, and looked like he was avoiding observing Delcogliano a bit too much. “When would you like to leave?”

Raylan checked the time on the massive clock hanging on the wall. “Early as possible today. What’s it going to cost?” Hagens had advanced him a whole three dollars.

The man tugged at his moustache again. “Well, the flat rate for one passenger would be two dollars and twelve cents, one way.” He glanced at Raylan’s face. “I don’t suppose you have any local credit? You and your partner –“

“He’s a prisoner.” Raylan sighed. “Two one-way?”

“I suppose…” the man shuffled some papers. “I could issue you a slip. For the prisoner. You’d need to pay in full when you arrive in Lexington. Or,” he brightened, “I can send a boy down to the Sheriff's and…”

“No need.” Raylan cut him off. “Just issue what you need to, and I’ll settle it when I get to the city.” The clock was ticking away. “When is the next one?”

“Fifteen minutes.” He looked squirrely. “I would need your ticket paid, Officer…”

“Marshal Givens.” Raylan set his badge on the counter, the exact amount for a single one-way ticket right beside. The man paled dramatically. “I can give you my badge number for that book of yours. I’d also need someone to take care of the animals out front. I’ll be back within the day.”

“Of course. Bessy Tillman has good rates, if money is a concern.”

“Won’t be when I turn this man in.” Raylan commented offhandedly.

Whatever face Delcogliano made must have been priceless buy Raylan didn’t bother to look. He saw enough of it in the reflection of the glass to get an idea.

Raylan had to spell Delcogliano’s last name three times and made a mess of his own signature, but they got on the second-class with seven minutes to spare. Raylan sat Delcogliano by the window. Wasn’t interested in the view himself and sit next to him to keep the charade of containment. Someone had left a copy of  _Kentucky Sentinel_ out of Mount Sterling. The whole front page was taken up by the speech of some Mason out by Shepardsville. After the introduction it meandered through a lacklustre synopsis of the Bible – which might have interested Boyd – but Raylan found himself skipping large sections before coming to the end. Talked a fair bit about widows and orphans and brotherhood. Which was touching in its way; kinda ruined with the epigram that followed about marriage. Seems like humor hadn’t changed in a hundred years. He read sections out to Delcogliano for his own amusement. Raylan raised his eyebrows when he came across a short article titled “Plea of Insanity”. He hesitated – it wasn’t news of Democratic victory across the North, East, and West or construction of water improvements along a rail line in Manhattan. Delcogliano looked over from the window.

“What? Run out of news?”

“No,” Raylan folded the paper. Made like he was holding it closer due to the uneven light. “W. W. Taylor, a white man, who sometime ago killed a… killed a negro named Moses Gray in Louisville, was on Monday acquitted on the plea of insanity, produced at the time by a superabundance of whisky.” He cleared his throat and kept going. “We know nothing of the merits of this case, but this plea of insanity is becoming too common, and the idea that a man under the influence of liquor is at liberty to commit murder, or any other crime, would be simply ridiculous were it not for the evils it brings upon the community. The truth is the juries are too lax in their verdicts, and men often become heroes when they should be convicts and murderers.”

He had no interest in seeing Delcogliano’s reaction.

“So,” he began, “you think if I killed a –”

“I think I want you to be quiet.” Raylan haphazardly folded the paper. He tossed it to the floor and then in a fit of violence kicked in under the bench in front of them. “Don’t say a fucking thing to me.”

A woman a few seats ahead was wearing a large brimmed hat. Raylan kept his eyes fixed on it. He could feel the warmth fade as the sun climbed high enough to be above the window. Delcogliano kept his trap shut.

 * * * *

They passed into town and Raylan saw straight down Main Street as the train slowed coming up the bridge into the depot. Delcogliano had fallen asleep soon after Raylan started ignored him. As the train begin to slow, he roused.

“Where’re we at?” He rubbed his mouth yawning widely. Raylan stood. His hat knocked forward at bit, so he readjusted it.

“Just pulled in. We’re at the depot just off the top of Short Street.” He let Delcogliano out and followed him off. Over the commotion no one seemed to notice the cuffs. There was a ticket inspector on the platform. He was focused on what looked like collection of young people. From the complaining they seemed like incoming college students. Seems like some bags had been left back in Elizabethtown.

Raylan saw Delcogliano start to slow so gave him a shove.

“Come on. I’m walking you down. Let’s keep this moving.” From what he remembered the historic courthouse was just up Short Street. It being a Thursday he was betting it was open. Stepping out on the head of Short Street was disorientating. Working for the Eastern District of the Service meant he was walking the city daily. Would cut over from the office on Barr St to the diner at the intersection of Short and North Upper. The street was still paved brick but when he looked down the intersection the District Court just wasn’t there. Or the street was just paved – Raylan almost tripped on nothing, trying to keep his head on and not faring all too well. There was a headache building. The District Courthouse, where he spent eighty-odd fucking hours a week, had been constructed during the Great Depression. Which meant it didn’t exist yet. Raylan pulled the brim low over his eyes and kept walking. He avoided some horseshit and shoved Delcogliano hard in the back. “Get on the fucking sidewalk. It’s just ahead on the right.”

They were walking southeast. He knew whereabouts he was. The historic court was where it had always been, and that settled something in his chest. He had never been inside; knew a couple of Harlan locals arraigned there when he was younger – one for mail fraud but the rest he couldn’t recall. What surprised him was it was brick. Must have been replaced by the big white one later. Raylan led Delcogliano though the opening in the wrought iron fence. The square looked kept, with trimmed grass, but the façade of the court was ragged. There was visible wear. Closer they got the more Raylan noticed pockmarks. He knew enough Kentucky history to know that there had been bitter fighting in the streets of Lexington. It was just strange to see it so obvious.

“That’s an ugly building.” Delcogliano slowed as they mounted the steps. He was, for the first time, beginning to look nervous. “I don’t think getting killed over a horse is really fair, Marshall.”

“You ain’t getting killed over a horse.” Raylan tugged on his elbow. One of the heavy wooden doors was propped open. “It was three horses and you killed an officer of the law in the Commonwealth of Kentucky.”

Raylan had to haul Delcogliano through the door. The interior was cool compared to outside. There was scattered pairs and threes of people in stern clothing. Court never changed. He could see what looked like doors to the courtrooms or judge’s chambers along the far wall across the lobby. Raylan took off his hat and guided Delcogliano over to a desk. There was a woman behind it. She was smiling tightly, eyes flicking down to the cuffs on Delcogliano’s wrists. Her light hair was pinned up, but her nails were ragged with irritated skin.

“Hello, I’m Louise Brewer.” She adjusted some pens. “How can I help you gentlemen?” There was a hanky hanging out the cuff of her dress. She noticed Raylan notice and tucked it away.

He shook the reaction off. “I’m here to drop off Frank Delcogliano. He’s got four counts – three for horse theft and one for murder.”

Louise selected a form. Raylan ruefully filled it out. The pen was a bit more effort than a ballpoint. He traced out his badge number painstakingly. “You’ll need to fill out your copy as well.” She prompted. He rolled his eyes. What he wouldn’t give for a Xerox. “Now, Mr. Delcogliano will be taken to jail and then we’ll see about getting him tried. Should be sometime within the week.” A crowd of men rushed through the front door and up a flight of steps.

“I though he had been charged,” Raylan argued over the noise. “I had to go all the way to Tennessee to get him for you.”

“Not for me Mr –“

“Marshal Raylan Givens.” He retorted.

“Marshal Givens. Had been he charged for the offences?”

“Warrant for arrest.” Delcogliano was shuffling around so Raylan pulled him upright and forward facing.

“So he ain’t been seen, so he’s not going to hang on your say so.”

Raylan nodded. “You a lawyer?”

Louise laughed. “I just work for the court here. You do know this in Frankfort? If he killed a man, he’s supposed to be seen in the local county…”

“He’s got federal charges.” Using one hand Raylan fumbled the writ onto the desk. “Got it right here. He’s to be hung – “

“He is to be tried in front of a jury! Can’t be hung if he ain’t been see by a judge. As he’s killed a man, according to you, he’d need to be hauled in front of the United States District Court for the District of Kentucky. But,” she tapped the writ, “all I see here is horse theft. No murders.”

Raylan glared at her. “Letter from Tennessee.” She took in from him. “Local sheriff sent it up to where I’m at by Pineville, London, what have you. Killed a deputy and the last horse this man stole had to be shot due to injury. Now, I have been on a horse of the better part of a week. I am tired. I just want to be paid and go home, ma’am. If you’re not going to hang him today send word and I’ll be back.” He looked at Delcogliano. “See that it’s done proper.”

“Fine.” Louise stood, gestured them to some chairs against the wall. “Have a sit. I’ll collect the paperwork for your payment, Marshal, and I’ll see about getting Mr. Delcogliano into our custody.” The helm of her dress just about covered her boots. Raylan let Delcogliano sit first then took the seat closest to the door, bent his knee and hung the hat off it.

“Bet you’re real disappointed,” Delcogliano commented. He was looking up at the ceiling. Raylan looked up then away. He shrugged.

“Can’t say I am. You deserve to be seen a’fore the Court. As is your right under the Fifth Amendment – due process. They taught us this all in Marshal School.” Delcogliano laughed. Raylan snuck a glance. “Am I disappointed that you’re not hanging today? Maybe.” He could hear some people coming back down the hall Louise had exited though. “Don’t forget I know you Delcogliano – your kind as well. You might not get it now. Might not even this year, more as like. But come some day you’ll piss someone off who can’t be outrun or talked in circles. More as like you’ll find yourself face down in the dust before you get old.” There was Louise and a man with her. He was carrying a leather case, dark off his pale suit and blond burnished shoes. The whole ensemble left him thin- like a pussywillow. Ready to bend any way of the breeze.

“You’ll be reading about me in the papers, I’ll bet.” There was a mean, gloating look in Delcogliano’s eye. He wasn’t smart but his luck had been going suchways that he thought he’d won.

“Son, I doubt you make the papers.” Raylan got to his feet. “Miss Brewer. Good to see you again.”

She nodded to him then introduced her companion. “This is Mr. Elias Levin, Esquire. He also works for the court. He’ll be helping you with your payment, Marshal.”

“Bet he can smell it.” Delcogliano was getting to his feet. “With that Jew -”

Raylan fisted his coat collar and forced him back into his seat. “None of that now, Frank. This man does honest work, and we all know of your successes otherwise. Now sit there quiet.” He turned to Elias. “Shall we?”

They borrowed a loose end table. Raylan showed him the writ and the letter. “Near as I can figure, I’d take the cost of transport as far as Elizabethtown; not past that as I don’t care much about the particulars.”

“You have much business in Elizabethtown?” It was not as casual question, from the set of the lawyer’s shoulders despite being asked offhand.

“Can’t say I do. My mama might have gone there for once or twice, but I live out further East. By – past London.”

“Near Washington?”

Raylan raised his eyebrows. “Not that close. There’s a fair amount of Virginia in the way.”

Elias laughed. “Yeah, I suppose there is. I’ll credit you quarter cost of that train ride. You leave that debt for Mr. Delcogliano’s ticket with me and I’ll settle it.”

“I need to go back by Elizabethtown anyways,” Raylan felt like he was apologizing, just couldn’t figure as to why. “Don’t mind paying it my own self from the payment.”

“Right, I see.” Elias went down the list. “Serving papers. Arrest. Good on those two; mileage would be…”

“I figured fifteen.” Raylan counted on his fingers. “Harlan to Tennessee. Livingston, Tennessee. Then from there to here.”

“Where in Tennessee?” He asked, making Raylan pause, take a deep breath.

“Livingston.” Raylan repeated.

Elias sighed. “I’m going to need to pull the maps and do this correctly.” He looked over to Delcogliano and Louise. She was standing off to the side staring avidity at a blank wall. To Raylan Delcogliano seemed to be happy enough talking to himself.

“You wanted to take care of Frank here? Or should I go to your office?”

Elias pointed up the flight of stairs. “Third on the left. Louise can show you.”

“Want me to help sort out this?” Raylan asked more out of courtesy then anything.

Elias waved him off. “It’s alright. This place isn’t barren. Just need his papers and then Hoyle,” he pointed at a man lurking by the doors to a chamber, “will take him were needs going.”

“Alright.” Raylan tucked his hat more firmly under his arm. “Looks like this is your show now, Esquire.”

“Now you’re getting it,” Elias waved him on. “Step to Marshal. Put money down, I’ll have you out of here within the hour.”


	3. Chapter 3

_Hang me, Oh hang me, and I’ll be dead and gone;_  
_Hang me, Oh_ _hang_ _me_ , _I’ll_ _be_ _dead_ _and_ _gone_ ;  
_Wouldn’t_ _mind_ _the_ _hangin’, but the_   _layin_ ’ _in_ _the_ _grave_ _so_ _long_ ;  
_Poor_ _boy, I_ _been_ _all_ _around_ _this_ _world_.

 _\- Hang Me, Oh Hang Me_ American Traditional, origin of the song may have been first in recorded Hazard, KY, of Judge Justis Begley in 1937; first commercial version was recorded in 1946 by Grandpa Jones, of _Hee_ - _Haw_ fame.

* * *

_Now_

Mullen was sitting on the couch Reardon had occupied weeks ago. David was standing behind his desk, halfway into his suit jacket. This place never let him leave at a reasonable hour. Alba was going to kill him.

“So he’s alive?” David asked.

“Not – not exactly.” Mullen was carrying a stack of papers in a file folder.

“You know Treasury is going to go through this whole building with a fine-toothed comb? They have an office across the floor from you. They can literally audit you while you take your morning shit.”

“I know that Vasquez.” Mullen tossed the folder on the low table in front of him and sank back into the leather. “He popped up in relation to Talon then a few weeks later during a prisoner transfer. Got a ticket ledger in Elizabethtown. Tim tracked it down. Suppose the Army made him good a running down paper as well as criminals.”

“In 1870?” David wished Reardon hadn’t stolen his gin. He never got around to replacing it because he drank so rarely. He wanted a drink now.

“1876. Talon was buried end of September, the transfer happened around mid-October.” Mullen carefully separated out a few of copied pages and placed them on the low table. David dragged his desk chair over. “We were able to confirm he was using his ID number issued by the Marshal Service.”

David rubbed at his forehead. “Would he be impersonating an officer?”

Mullen shot him a look. “Hell if I know – that’s your problem David.”

David shrugged helplessly. “What do you want me to do Art?”

“Can we revoke the order?”

“Unless Raylan shows up here, alive, it’s going to be impossible.” He held up a hand, placating. “Jesus. Look, people get declared dead a few times a year. I know AG dealt with one out of Magoffin. Woman’s disability checks stopped coming because somehow in April she was _legally_ diseased. So, we helped her though the whole process: Social Security, Department of Vital Statistics. All accounts frozen, moved to probate, only living relation was in Washington trying to arrange cremation over the phone about a woman I had sitting in my office. She was dead officially for three months and it took a year and a half to fix; Givens had been legally dead for what, little over a year? After being declared that way by my boss - and by the government with a _legal presumption of death_. After massive expense on the local, state, and federal level!” He took a deep breath. “I know his aunt, stepmother, whatever, got his life insurance and access to his estate. Which was not… unsubstantial for where she lives.”

“The man lived out a motel.” Mullen argued, stacking some of the documents.

David kicked out a foot awkwardly. “You know that kind of housing arrangement isn’t unusual for someone from his background.”

Mullen crossed his arms. “Yeah.” He seemed defiant.

“Motels are good long-term because utilities are bundled and sometimes, month to month, it’s cheaper. You’ve seen the housing issues around here. What on Earth would convince a man raised in a place where median income is about sixteen thousand dollars a year to spend a thousand a month on rent, before bills? Hell, he was living out of a motel in Miami too – this behavior is nothing new.”

Mullen nodded. “Helen knows we… found something. Which means…”

“She does nothing new. Until Raylan is recovered, one way or another, she keeps to her regular schedule.”

“When he is recovered…” 

“If he’s dead,” at Art’s look David protested, “you said he was alive over a hundred fifty years ago. Say I believe you, fine. He’s alive and well in 1860-fuckever but that being the case he would have died eventually. Setting aside running around as a Marshal back then and all the diseases and murdering; Art, if he got old, he would have died that way.”

“VA is still paying family benefits from the Civil War.” The instance was almost vicious. 

“Marshal’s Service isn’t. We would know. That woman was born in the Depression – that’s sixty years off where Givens is, and she’s the only one. She’s it. The last one.” David leafed through the pages. Someone had taken the time to highlight Givens' number every time it appeared. Bank statements in Lexington, receipts from train stations and court houses, one from a mail-order book service for the  _Posthumous Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley_. “Our responsibility is to his family right now. Protecting Helen and the estate. I know about the wrongful death suit, Art. This comes back on Givens he’s going to prison.” Sure, that would have been the worst case scenario, but David learned to expected the worst from where Givens was concerned.

“You want to find his grave.” Mullen replied. “You want to find were he’s buried and then prove he’s dead.”

“Official story from the Commonwealth and this office is that Talon was buried just over half a decade ago. You see what I’m saying? The whole time-travel bullshit doesn’t exist. UK is working with us, but the locals are thinking they’re assisting a research project, not an active manhunt.”

“I know all this,” Mullen snapped back. “I’ve been up to my neck in it.”

“If we find his grave it’s not really going to change anything Art. That’s all I’m saying. Even if he lasted another week or year or lifetime then, he’s never going to be _here_. I’m sorry for that. I really am.”

Mullen rubbed at an eye briskly. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Yeah.” He took up, looked at the papers, then shook his head. "Alright. Fine."

 David watched him storm out. 

* * *

_Then_

It was an elaborate spread for Sunday dinner, a pork roast dotted with cloves and surrounded with potatoes, side of cabbage, boiled yams, fresh rolls steaming in their pan. The table was, according to the Mayor, ringed with the notable of town. Of which apparently, he was now a member. In a manner of speaking. 

“My.” Boyd smiled winningly. “Mrs. Mayor, I do believe you have outdone yourself.”

She was plump for Harlan. Girthy and hands encrusted with rings. “Please, Mr. Crowder, call me Eliza. And my husband is Harold. This is my bosom friend Alma Hagens and her husband, whom you’ve met. To your right is the Dr Grover Stevens and his new bride Ruth, out of Louisville!” Boyd nodded as Eliza spoke. “Just across from you are the providers of this fine meal - John and his brother Paul Herring of Elizabethtown and their local partner Jacob Dan.”

“What sort of enterprise are your men in?” Boyd leaned back as Ruth Stevens ladled the cabbage across his pate. It was boiled to paleness. When she smiled, he could see the edges of her veneers. They were dark with tobacco juice.

“Grocery,” Paul said. 

His brother added, “And shipping,” while trying to fit a uncut slice of ham into his mouth. Then went down the list of imports from the coast for a good while, his brother adding colorful commentary as needed. It was mostly directed at the woman when the list went towards the finer things. “We even have French cut,” John added with a wink. Alma giggled shrilly. Their twice-named friend made liberal use of his spittoon.

At the head of the table the Mayor was directing drinks. Everyone was served wine, the men a double pour. Boyd took a swing at it. Must have been opened too early, it went down almost thick. The woman all sipped at it discretely. Mike hadn’t touched his. He hadn’t been particularly polite either. Kept focusing on his plate as the conversation went down well enough. Boyd enjoyed watching for a while.

There were a couple of young girls standing around the edge of the room. One looked not much older than Lorraine. The decanter was cliched in her hands, knuckles blanched with her grip. She seemed pure terrified when she noticed but he shook his head at her. To a one they were underfed, tan and worn-looking. The starched clothing seemed like a costume. One was amusing herself by crossing one of her eyes. Boyd bowed his head to hide a grin, directed his attention back to the table.

“Will this teaching post be different from your last?” Alma asked. “I am a keen reader myself as I’m sure my beloved husband has told you.” 

“He has indeed,” Boyd responded on the same tone. A shade too intriguing. “I was teaching out further East, house to house. Just to get by for a time. It’s how I amassed my eclectic collection.”

“Oh, positively charming!” She clapped her hands together. “Bringing education to those poor lost souls.” 

Ruth nodded as well. “Most encouraging. There is so little education out here. The cycle of... Oh, what is it called, dear?”

The doctor wiped at his mouth. “This is the lot of the Poor White, as I’m sure the teacher here is aware of, him being of such stock himself. The hill-people are notable of their lack of work ethic, sloth even.” He waved a hand for empathizes, sketching out something lying on the ground. “They own no land outright nor slaves- accounting for their sentimentally with the Negro- and why I summarize this was such a Unionist stronghold…”

“As far as I was aware that was a vote on the state level.” They locked eyes for a moment.

Then Grover chuckled. “That may be true, but the real opinions are now being expressed! Look at the shift in voting these past two decades. The War is concluded, and we are able to air our views without fear of repercussion.”

“I see.” Boyd took a pull of his wine. It soured his mouth.

“Now, now, what I was trying to say – and I’m sure you have all witnessed -is something our dear teacher will fight like David and the lion. A struggle of brute natures against learned wisdom.” He nodded towards Boyd in defense. “That learned wisdom being your own.”

Ruth was enamored. “Oh, yes. The defects!”

“Defects?” Boyd repeated. The grocers were watching like it was a horse race while Eliza and Alma whispered to each other. Mrs. Hagens waved frantically at Ruth until she noticed. They rose together and left though a swinging door – to the kitchen Boyd assumed– “I’m not sure what you could mean by that.” His eyes stayed on the door for a moment. It had been an unusually practiced maneuver. The room felt like prison right before a fight; tight and quiet.

“Let me put it this way.” Grover shoved his plate away. “Did your father own land?”

“A bit.”

“How about slaves?”

“Not a one, friend.” He shifted in his chair. This is a straight line of thinking. Kentucky had the third largest population which made it now one of the largest collections of freemen in the country. Not as much of a captive audience as much as some would have liked. They had been legally allowed to vote on five years now. Half of Lexington from 1870 was black – he knew history like he knew the back of his hand. He was, after all, a reader.

“So, you worked then? And your siblings too, your mother and your father.”

“Until they died.” The expressions of pity around the table were poorly done.

“Exactly – that sort of exercise; backbreaking, lifelong work. This has killed your people I’m sorry to say.”

“That being your medical opinion?” He spoke soft under the clatter of utensils, then louder, “Where the joy dies out of the eyes of childhood, girlhood is but a flickering shadow, and maturity an enforced decrepitude, a lingering old age, a quenching of the fires of life before they half burn?” He drained the wine for the alcohol over anything else.

“Beautifully put. This is why I am sure this project of the Mayor’s is doomed, this idea of outdoor relief really. I mean, you are obviously an exception to the faults of your people Mr. Crowder. Not just the toils but also the savage traits.”

Boyd tapped a finger on the table, then drew a line along the lace topper. “Generic degradation.”

Hagens was slurping on his mash. Boyd watched him, feeling no small irony with the situation. Grover was bobbing his head like a chicken. He knew something was coming. He had done this song and dance before. Shirt buttoned all the way up and creased, cuffed pants meant that he still saw all of himself in the mirror come morning. “Which, as you have said, I have adequately overcome?” He had overcome a number of things. Being shot in the chest was one beginning. Seeing his men hung like strange fruit another. The maw of the mine, the unseeing eye a third. He wasn’t too inanity following in that vein, witches and bitches besides.

“Yes Boyd. May I call you Boyd? See, we here are members of a fraternity of Methodist teaching and understanding of cultural concerns.”

“You’re talking about Breckinridge.” He had given this speech. He knew in backwards and forwards; considering his self-education on the subject he had an upper leg on their proclivities.

“Exactly.” It was the first time the silent grocery partner had spoken – the local with two first names. Boyd didn’t figure him for too local though, to be sitting at this table and owning a franchise grocery store.

“Night riding,” Boyd said, just to hear them agree. The men all nodded. The Mayor was smiling. Boyd showed his teeth in response. Wouldn’t Raylan be interested to hear what he was coming back to. “Why don’t you start at the beginning, good doctor. I’m myself very interested.”

* * *

_Now_

 She watched as Carroll reached for the radio.

“Do you mind? I have some music on my phone.”

“No.” Rachel kept her eyes on the road. “I don’t mind at all.” The roads were better marked the closer to the interstate and they weren’t there yet. Part of the route cut though Bennett country. She had seen what that kind of ego did to a man, the three men off Mags Bennett who thought they were owed the whole of the land and its people because one of their ancestors had the good luck of being dropped squalling on that earth.  

Carroll pulled out the cords and pugs she needed, fiddled with some of the ports. “My son is much better at this,” she said as she worked. “Can even do the Bluetooth.”

“This is a government car.” Rachel replied with a smile. “With our budget we should have some of that.” The car had a digital readout showing just under forty. No wonder her feet had been freezing today. She was raised in the middle-sized city in Tennessee; not too much in the way of nature - nothing like out here hugging West Virginia. All wild, loose country. She had grown up in manicured city parks. Firmly middle class, but even then it wasn't equal. Her mother was a librarian and straightened her hair next to the stove once a week with a metal comb that hissed when it hit her scalp. Good hair, good grades.

“My husband is in project management.” Carroll queued up _500 Miles_. Rachel glanced over. “I know, it’s a little old for me but my mom loved them.” Rachel preferred the modern classics of pop - big numbers. Her parents loved the 70s, would play the best of  _Soul Train_ and dance down the den floor with the furniture shoved against the wall. Tim seemed to be a thoroughly modern man while Raylan would keep to the stripped sound of steel guitars and low voices. He was as backwoods as anyone she had ever met; a throwback like that whole area he hailed from. 

Once on one of the long hauls down-state he had cranked up Big Bill Broonzy and laughed in her face. 

"My mama would play him when she was cooking dinner - don't know if she like his voice or the way it twisted up Arlo; I imagine it was a bit a both." He tapped his fingers to the strumming, nodding with the warning tones. "Com'on, not like you never wanted to piss off anyone in that passive-aggressive way you got."

She had pretended to be aloof and he had been quietly amused. They were friendly but sometimes the way he talked didn't come across as aware as he thought he was. 

“They’re soothing.” Rachel said later to Carroll. The three crooners were soft over the hum of the tires. The yellow lines dashed by in the dark. _Lord, I’m one, Lord, I’m two, Lord, I’m three…_

“What about yours?”

“My husband?” Rachel checked the rear-view mirror. “I’m divorced. It didn't work out.” It was easier not to think about. She had her dead sister and her jailed brother-in-law and her nephew close by. Would go out when he played J.V. which would sometimes be as early in the week as Tuesday nights, bundled up on metal bleachers and shouting down with breath steaming back into her face. Stomped her feet along with mama mostly to keep warm. It was going to be enough for awhile. 

“Sorry to hear that.” Carroll tucked her hair behind her ears. She had a rash on her neck poorly hidden by makeup. She even sounded a little sorry. Past her out the passenger window there was only layers of darkness. 

“Yeah, me too.” Rachel checked the exit signs as they passed. Lots of nothing, small towns with fast food strips and maybe a gas station. The gauge showed they were at just about half a tank. Worst case could stop for a break an hour outside Lexington. Might get a quick coffee but that would keep her up all night. A bottle of water then. She yawned widely then rubbed at an eye, careful not to smear mascara everywhere. Her left ear popped. Might be coming down with a cold. The song switched over to Dylan. He was howling about how he might strike it lucky on a highway goin' west, Rachel refusing to look at Carroll for the whole of the song. Time was going by quick enough if they ignored each other politely. 

Finally she said, “Marshal Brooks, I’m sorry. That was unprofessional; are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Agent.” Rachel swallowed. She wished she had a coffee, something to wet her mouth. It felt tacky. Unclean. When she ran a tongue over her teeth she pulled a face, sighed. “I’d just like to listen for a while.”

 "Sure." Carroll picked up her phone. The light coming off it washed out the whole dash and her face in blue. She tapped at it then offered, "Would you want to pick anything?"

Rachel checked the mirrors again. The mountains were thinning as the interstate widened and curved away from the old places. The roadside was dotted with roadkill. Heat was humming out of the vents and the clouds were spread thin overhead. She could pick out the low winter stars with the silver disk of the moon hugging the edges of the hills. "Sure. You got any blues?" Carroll had Dave Van Ronk which was close enough. Very slowly it began to rain. 

* * *

_Then_

It was a bad start to the night when someone hammered hard on the door.

Raylan rested a hand on one of his new guns and waited. It was a Colt Strap pistol and would have put him back a fair amount, thirteen dollars each, but had charged it to the Service; he had gotten an uneven pair – one standard Calvary length and another at just under five inches. Both used the .45 cartridges and he had spent a few happy morning hours getting used to the irons. He had the shortened barrel on and the seven and a half stowed in Robert’s end table. The Glock had been secreted into the bed-frame. He held his other hand to the door just above the handle. There was only a simple latch.

“I need to talk to the marshal!” It was a woman’s voice in a harsh, low call. “I can see your light!”

He cracked the door and called back, “Who’s there?”

“I need to come in. Got a man here, badly injured. Please.”

In the bed Robert coughed weakly. Raylan quieted him then pulled the door wide. “I'm the marshal. Come on.”

It was a black woman, which surprised him. She was supporting a small man who was swaying heavy. Raylan helped her settle him near the stove. Her hands were steady, but her eyes were twitching. They both smelled of sweat and road. Mud was caked over her shoes, heavy on the helm of her dress, smeared up her legs. The man stunk of something worse.

“You need coffee?” Raylan offered. If she wasn’t in shock, she was in something like it. He was still exhausted himself. He squinted at his watch. Not even midnight. He left it open on the table. “Won’t take a minute.”

“I,” she took a deep breath. “I would love some. Thank you.” Her accent was more northern. Sharp on the ends of words.

“Who’s your friend?”

“I’m sorry.” Running a hand though her hair she looked like she was trying to hold her head on. “I’m so sorry. I…” She paused for a second. Suddenly she shoved herself to her feet. Her companion didn't rouse. “Are we safe here?”

“You are.” Raylan promised. “You and your friend just are fine long as I have anything to do with it.”

“What about him?” She flung an arm towards Robert.

“He’s just dying slow ma’am. Not even much for conversation.”

“Al’right.” She took up a position just in front of the man. Shoulders back and facing him square. “Bring on the light. I’m Jennie, Jennie Mead. I’m from Ohio originally. I’m a teacher; we are both teachers. This here is Mr. P. S. Reeve. I need you to get him out of Kentucky.”

When he turned up the lamp and carried it over, he could see the man was beaten, nose crushed flat and both eyes blackened. His eyes was open in slits but Raylan could only see the whites. His jaw hung open unevenly. Only some of his teeth looked cracked. A handkerchief acting as a bib was soaked in drool. Someone had tried to clear off much of the blood, but it had stained his skin. Jennie crossed her arms defensively looking Raylan dead on. She watched him with cold eyes. He set the lamp near Reeve. The man didn’t stir.

“He on the lam?” While asking Raylan got the coffee ready in short movements.

Jennie clenched her fists and cut her eyes away. “After a fashion. He’s been hurt, sir.” He meandered back over.

“I can see that. Who’d he upset?” It was asked part in jest, part to gather information. He tugged at the shirt and could see clear across the man’s chest the imprint of a boot. The left side of his ribs looked kicked in, grinding with each shallow inhale.

“Kukluk.” He could see her frustration making her eyes wet. “You going to let them murder him or will you get him out?” Jesus Christ. Raylan had only been back for four days. Spent most of it wiping Robert down and waiting for him to pass. He was hardly breathing now, sipping on air. The doctor was dismissive, telling Raylan to keep him quiet with laudanum for the time being. Now this shit. God damn it but he would do what he could.

“You say you’re teachers?” Raylan gently closed up the shirt then dragged a blanket over the man’s shoulders. It was wool and stunk like the horse but would have to suit. Reeve leaned with the weight and Raylan steadied him gently. He could feel Reeve tremble under his grip. “Where at?”

“Trigg County – I was in Funton but was asked to come up when they drove out the teacher in Mayfield. I was friendly with Mr Reeve here. Met him at a function at one of the African Baptist Churches.”

“Funton?” He looked over in shock. “How long did it take you to get here?”

“Near on a week, going mostly at night. I got a cart and mule.” Jennie spoke distantly while she petted back Reeve’s hair. His whole face spasmed. Raylan stood off to give her room. It was a tender touch, platonic and careful. “I know – but we couldn’t head right south. The Klan’s too big there. Him being in this state, well, word was there was a new marshal and you can’t have been worse then the last one. He didn’t take sides; if you’re the same that’s fine but at least I know we won’t be murdered tonight.” He crossed to the stove before the coffee overboiled. He didn't want to look at her just then, with a roiling horror under his skin. 

“They beat you for teaching?” Pulling the pot from the stove Raylan also grabbed three cups. He set the pot on the table. 

She laughed bitterly. Raylan looked over. “Not even. He wanted to set up a school. That’s all, and it’s not even the worst part – they killed one of the students. I had to run, marshal, so the rest would be safe.”

Raylan dropped the cups down and grabbed her arm. “Killed who?” he demanded. She shoved his hand off, pulled inwards. As if he would strike her. As if he was Arlo. He froze with hands raised and felt sick, bitterly angry.

“Sam Bascom, a boy in my class. They beat him then hung him right there, in front of me, and there must have been fifty of them all unmasked. In the middle of the day. Dragged him out of the room.” Jennie rubbed a hand roughly across her face, slapped her own cheek. “They burnt it down. The church. The funds for the school hadn’t been raised yet and they had run the bureau agent and the other teacher out so I suppose they thought I was going give in. They would follow me in the streets, spit at me, pull my hair – I wouldn’t leave.” She grabbed Raylan’s hand and dug her nails in. “Damn them. Damn them all.” He touched her wrist and squeezed her hand in return. “I thought I wouldn’t leave.” She looked at Reeve then at the floor. “Damn us too, for being cowards.”

“You’re not cowards. You kept him alive and you both got here. I’m going to get you the rest of the way.” He let her hand go as she pulled away. “Where do you need to be?”

“I have a contact in Kyles Ford – a Republican who worked with Willis Russell - a marshal like yourself.”

“Yes,” Raylan didn’t know the details, but the name was passingly familiar. “I know it. I’ll get you there.” Jennie nodded and stepped back, pausing on the way to the stove to tap Reeve’s arm. Raylan bent to check Reeve again then poured the coffee. He diluted Reeve’s with water. Made it cool as well and helped him drink it, making sure he didn’t choke. The man, though it all, showed no signs of truly waking. “Has he spoken to you?”

“No.” Jennie finally took a seat. She looked to be on the cusp of sleep but bit her hand harshly to stay awake. It left an imprint in her palm. Then she sipped her coffee. “I sent all the children home. One of the men mentioned his name – Reeve I mean – so I hitched the mule and hauled up. Got there and they had already done it. They had whipped three freemen bloody besides.” She was looking blankly into the short distance right through his watch. “One was still awake. So much blood he looked bathed in it, like they had dipped him into a paint can. I don’t think I’ll ever like red again.” She swallowed and sipped. “They had wrapped up his head and rolled him inside a sack. I put it in my cart and some of the women came on road with me the first night. I knew about Kyles Ford and heard tell Mt. Pleasant was in the way. He had two fits last night and soiled himself. I was just tired, to be frank. I woke and hitched the mule and come across the river – knew you lived a ways out so gave up just a little when I saw your door. That's why I knocked,” Jennie looked at him finally. Held his eyes and Raylan clenched his jaw. “I don’t doubt you as a person but I have become quite distrustful.”

“I don’t blame you.” He replied. Refused to take it personal. “I’ll get the horse hitched. Need someone to watch Robert while I’m gone. Can’t leave him to die alone.” Stood, put on his hat. “Give me twenty minutes then I’ll take you to Kyles Ford myself.”

“Al’right.” Jennie rested her elbow on the table and bowed her head. “Al’right, marshal.” Her hands covered her face, shoulders shook just once. The lamp made her shadow thrown well across the wall. He shut the front door quietly.

* * *

_Now_  

Standing all day was wrecking her back but she was able to sit out back and smoke. Was kind of them to hire her back on after killing Boman; had even had women coming in to gossip with her, saying all kinds of things. They’re own might haves and would’ve dones. When Raylan vanished, it wasn’t under too much suspicion seeing as he came and went when he pleased. Only one who kicked up a fuss besides the law was Boyd. He had that strong mindedness going hand and hand with his ego so no one took him to heart either. She had seen him during the mornings when fixing herself a quick breakfast before driving out. She had liked working Corbin, but the house had tying her out to Harlan like a stone around her neck.

Boyd was a talker if they had supper, but she preferred to avoid really listening. Boman had been dashing, witty and loud. Ava found Boyd creepy – the way he would lord judgment and change on the flip of a dime; made easily sullen if felt not given the proper amount of attention. Ava cottoned on pretty quick that he didn’t care for what kind. Was just as happy with adoration or disgust as long as the muzzle of emotion was pointed his way. That ended just like everything else did with that fall – all things dying under the smell of frozen ground.

He stopped talking to her the day they pulled Raylan’s hat from the gulch. She had come home to him on the front steps of the porch about blind drunk and crying. Not just crying but with real effort like someone pulled his heart out of his chest barehanded.

“What you doing, Boyd?” She had asked. 

He hadn’t replied. Ava sat next to him, let him lean against her heavy. After Boman was buried she had done much the same. Like her whole self was morning.

She had loved him; it had been because she hated him too. Had been so scared in and out of every day. Would wake up with stress curdled in her belly. Couldn’t hold a glass of water in the evenings without slopping it down the front of her dressing gown. There was kin within kin - the way Francis Givens would look her right in the eye when she was getting things for supper and ask her directly how things were. As if she hadn’t thrown over her kin and the clan of Holsdorfs for a town mining boy like Arlo; all for thinking she was stepping up in the world. She had shot him. That had been easy. He hit her then she stood up with blood drying tacky on her face. Went and got the rifle all the while him talking at her then he looked real surprised when she pulled. Got him right there in the chest and he weren’t surprised no more.

Yet she had still cried. ‘Cause she loved some part of him, deep and secret and ashamed; and loved the idea of hisself that never, ever was.

Ava took another pull on her cigarette. It warmed her deep in her chest and made her feel calmer, left her hands still and heart solid. She huddled into the collar of her jacket. Fall was ending quick this year. Amanda stuck her head out. 

“There’s a few women to see you. Some kinda police.”

“Alright,” Ava knocked the ash off. She ground the ember flat and tucked the end back into the pack. The box went right back next to her large black comb. 

She followed Amanda into the gloom of the storage area. 

“If you don’t wanna talk I can tell ‘em you went to lunch.”

“That’s sweet of you.” Ava patted her arm. “Imma be fine though. Can you take care of Faith for me? I think her hair is almost done drying.”

“Sure thing.”

It was Marshal Brooks and some other fed in the front. They were both sitting in the waiting area with their neat modern looks keeping their neat shoes flat to the ground. Could tell the cuts they got cost a bit more then what Harlan had on offer. Ava give Brooks a weak smile. The other fed had a look Ava had seen on those rich folk, like out in the big houses in the cities and all the rest. She was being judged and found short.

“Good to see you Marshals. Anything I can do for you?”

The second marshal stood. “Is there a place we can talk with you?”

Ava looked around. There was no office to speak of, so she shrugged. “We can go to the break area. I’ll walk you around.”

Marshal Brooks followed close yet it wasn’t threatening. The other was a few steps back looking up and down the street. Sure, it looked battered compared to the new things going up in Lexington. Here the streets were full of the closed shops and dusty windows long empty. Sagging roofs - bricks loose and crumbling down to nothing. 

“How are you doing?” Marshal Brooks asked. Ava took the turn up the alley. 

“Watch the puddles. I’m doing alright. Keeping busy with work.”

“Seeing anyone?” Brooks grinned like she knew it was a stupid question. “I really am just asking.”

“Oh,” Ava waver a hand over the rickety bench table. “No, I’m not. I was helping Johnny until he could walk a bit better.” At Brooks’ look she explained. “When Bo shot him it about scooped all his guts everywhere and messed up things in his back. He couldn’t walk good at all. I just took him food and things sometime. There was a nurse who would come down every day for a while. Now it’s just a’cuppla times a week.” Nothing for it so Ava took a seat. Her back hurt awful bad. There was a cramp pulled up in the bottom of her foot. She tried to flatten it out so’s the pain would stop. The marshals sat across like she was getting questioned. Just like the Sheriff did after she got Boman good, like after Raylan disappeared with Boyd on his trail. 

“We want to talk with you about the Crowders,” the other marshal had a file with photos and flipped them over like paying cards and she had a flush right there. “Can you talk to me about these men? Can you give me their names?”

They were the same style; drivers license photos with washed out backgrounds and deadened eyes. Could make anyone look like a criminal with a shot like these. 

“That’s Bo Crowder,” and it was old ‘cause he had color in the front of his full head of hair and was thinner in the neck then “Boman Crowder,” forever smug with them stupid but pretty eyes. The next two had no expression, men who did their job and left. “Boyd Crowder” and then she tapped the edge of the next one. “This here is Raylan Givens.” The last one gave her pause. He was younger than the rest by a fair amount, maybe close to Boman if any, but with a thick mouth and very blond. “I don’t have any idea who is this is. Never seen him before in my life.”

“Are you sure?” The marshal asked. 

“Very sure,” Ava replied. 

“Boyd was living with you for a while.” It was a comment from Brooks. Ava crossed her arms. 

“He rented a room off me, you mean. I needed the rent for my mortgage.”

“Not anymore.” The other marshal tapped Raylan’s photo. “You got a lump sum from that settlement.”

“Few people did.”

Brooks nodded. “Can you be sure he never came around?” She pointed accusingly at the unnamed man.

“I’m very sure Marshal Brooks.” Ava pulled out her unfinished smoke. “I couldn’t swear on but I’m sure enough.”

“You, Wionona Hawkins, Helen Givens formerly Holsdorfs; what do you know of them?” It was the other marshal. Ava thought that, on closeup, she didn’t look very impressive at all. Her face was a different color then her neck for a start.

“Well I know Helen pretty well. She never came in for a cut but I’d see her around town. I used to visit Raylan’s mama - that’s how anyone knew anything about him really - and she’d be there sometimes. Didn’t have much of a reason to go around after Mrs. Givens passed.”

“And Wionona Hawkins?” This was really a piece of pointed commentary. Ava huffed a bit.

“I musta met her a time or two at the courthouse in Lexington. I know she worked there. Not sure what she did...” Ava trailed off. “I can’t figure exactly what you two want.” Books watched her in silence while the other marshal put all the pictures away. 

“This,” Brooks gestured to her partner, “is Agent Carroll of the Treasury Department. We want to know if Raylan has contacted you recently.”

Ava laughed a pure sound of surprise. “Are you kidding?” She sobered. “You’re not kidding. I talked to you about this over and over and over again. Raylan and I weren’t even friendly when he got kilt.”

“Killed?” Brooks asked. 

“Trust me, if someone had tried to killed that man and they didn’t do it proper he would tear after them to the end of days. The Givens don’t hold much grudges but they are mean to their bones and take things personal. Raylan was like his daddy.”

“He was a federal officer.” Brooks said. Carroll was taking notes. “Sworn...”

“You meet Dickie Bennett?”

That stopped her. “Yes.”

“You think he was born a cripple? I know the young’n is stupid and slow but Dickie is keen right?”

“He’s got a look,” Brooks slowly agreed. “You can see him try and work things out.” 

“Test the end of his rope more like.” Ava shot back. “Back when they was all in school Dickie threw a ball at Raylan during a game. Right at his head. I don’t remember it all too well but I remember what it sounded like when he busted in that boy’s leg with a bat.” Carroll had stopped writing. 

“Excuse me?” Brooks looked totally blank, like she was carved out of stone. “Raylan did what?”

“Beat in Dickie’s knee and made a cripple out of him.” She blew out a breath. It was so cold her lungs felt tight, or maybe it was all the smoking she had taken up these last few months. Sometimes she would catch a look of herself in a window or some-such and be surprised at how old she looked.

“How old was Raylan?”

“Not sure,” Ava picked at the edge of a nail. “He was about done with school. Seventeen or eighteen, I guess.”

“He didn’t have a criminal record.” Carroll was just saying it to be said Ava guessed. Brooks pulled out her own little back notepad, made a couple of marks.

“Well, the Sheriff was still friendly with Raylan’s mama and his old man wasn’t working or causing too much trouble. Maybe they let it slide. Weren’t nothing his own daddy didn’t do for pay. There’s meanness to ‘em all is what I’m saying. All’s I’m saying is if Raylan was alive he would be sniffing around here day and night because nothing got to him like people pissing him off. Boyd was good at that.”

Brooks wiped at the top of the table with a hand. “He hadn’t been doing that for a while.”

“No.” 

“They had met a few times.” Carroll wasn’t asking.

“Just at the mine to talk or at Audrey’s for a drink.” Ava sighed. “Which I figure is all in those papers you’ve got. Maybe you weren’t all up on the long history of Raylan and Dickie and their families but everything else you know. You have known.”

“Did Raylan ever work for Boyd Crowder?”

Ava looked at Carroll hard. “No. Never.”

Brook nodded. “Thank you- “

“Hold on,” Carroll even raised a hand. “Did Boyd Crowder ever work for Raylan Givens?”

“No.” Ava hoped Brooks would help her out. “No, they weren’t even friends no matter what Boyd thought.”

“There a reason Givens deputized Crowder and took him to get you?”

“I don’t know. They just showed up, him and Raylan, and his daddy was kilt and so was that boy kidnapper. It was at his daddy's palce. That’d be my guess.” There was frost all along the edges of the wood. Ava rubbed her hands together. “I really don’t ladies, I’m sorry.” She made to pull out another smoke but stopped. "Ain't like I'm a trained officer of the law." Brooks had the grace to look a little put upon but held her head straight. Carroll looked finished with the whole thing. 

Then Carroll sighed in a real dramatic way shoving away from the table. Books stayed sitting for a moment. “Thank you Ms. Randolph.”

Ava waved the comment away with a cigarette. “I tol’ your boss not to come down here anymore. I know I can’t really ask you all to leave me alone but I’d rather have a phone call, if you don’t mind.”

Brooks nodded and made a note in a little pocket flipbook. “I’ll tell him. Keep them from bothering you.”

Ava stubbed out the smoke. The little orange stick crumbled. “Just a bad at pickin’ ‘em I guess.”

“It’s not on you what anyone else does.” Brooks finally stood. “You weren’t responsible for a single one of their lives. Just focus on you own.”

While she was walking away Ava, extraposed and pricked, shouted. “I aim too! Ya’ll jus keep on interrupting!”

Brooks might have been laughing as she rounded the corner and vanished out of sight.

* * *

_Then_

It hadn’t been planned. If he had a hand in it, it wouldn’t have been public. When he had given to imagining Boyd figured he might have a mind to drop by the Sheriff’s office or even the one-room house Raylan had installed himself in playing at doctor to a clinic of a single man. Might have brought a bottle, a good age and good company besides.

Rather he had been talking offhanded to Betts Johnson as she measured out flour sent over, her old man Enoch checking eggs by hand. They were competing direct with Don and the boys from Elizabethtown. Boyd had sat in on the preaching and the conversation over illegal drinks, the meetings with no polite company in sight. The Mayor was given to a specific sort of proselytization.

Boyd was leaning almost the whole length of the counter, saying, “Leave it, I just need a bit, Betts,” when Raylan walked right in.

He hadn’t noticed right away. It was apparent he had lost some weight, skin beginning to draw tight. Harlan didn't have good eating these days. He was going for the dried goods in the back. Boyd couldn’t help himself. “Raylan if you’re wanting some flour Miss Betts here has given me too much. What say we split it fair and you can stop frowning so much.”

Raylan knocked up the brim of his hat eyes wide, replied, “You never split anything fair in your life, Boyd,” like a reflex. Boyd laughed.

“Com’on son. Add a couple of candies.” He grinned while getting himself upright. “I’m running up my tab today.”

“You don’t have a tab.” Enoch retorted, one eye fixed on the egg illuminated by a candle clenched in hand.

Raylan had a hooked his coat back behind his holster as he approached. Boyd whistled. It looked very new. “That is a nice piece. SSA?”

He nodded. “Strap pistol they call it.” Drumming his fingers on the leather he added, “You carrying?”

Boyd shrugged. “I have Centennial at home.”

“Much call for a rifle there?” Finally Raylan rested his elbow on the counter, mirroring Boyd. “Where you’re at?”

“Despite its charms, Sukey Ridge does require a measure of diligence.” Boyd watched Betts tie off the flour. “Go’on Betts, add some candy for my friend here.” On an offhand he added, “Let me know when you’re next up in Lexington. Go some business there.”

Raylan popped a hard candy into his mouth, clicked it off his teeth. “Got much in the way of legitimate enterprise?” He tucked the paper bag with the others away in his coat. It was a nice long number. Gave him the cut of a man with some taste, hid how narrow his shoulders had gotten. While doing so he covered up his sidearm again. Boyd snagged a few sour winter apples as well.

Ignoring the dig Boyd payed Betts for the goods. “Let me know. We can make a day of it.”

Boyd pulled open the door and courteously paused to let Raylan pass first. The man stopped, looking at him flat.

“Boyd.” His voice was as flat as his eyes but he was grinning a little.

“Alright, Raylan. The strangest fucking things get you.” The flour knocked against his leg as they walked. “Come over to mine. We have some needs to discuss.”

“Do we?” Raylan was putting on a good show, but Boyd could see him rub at his mouth and while he did his hand trembled.

Boyd glanced at his own feet. The nice boots he had brung with him where looking more worn, the rubber soles all ripped up. Raylan’s cowboy boots sounded like they had wood bottoms. “We go up to the city together I’ll by you an ice cream.”

Raylan seemed distracted but nodded along to something in his head. They had come up to the end of town.

“I’ll pour you one if you come over. Got a rye whiskey.” Cajoling never hurt no one.

Raylan broke the candy between his teeth, chewed on it. “Well,” he shifted on his feet. “Sure.”

Boyd reached out to pat his arm but Raylan leaned away. He showed his hands like a magician, all intent but nothing to see. There wasn’t much in the way of conversation so Boyd just led him to where he had Zelda harnessed in a two-wheel trap. Raylan raised his eyebrows but said nothing while he climbed up. Boyd had no complaint either. He commented, "Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay?" Raylan just seemed puzzled. Boyd clicked to get the horse moving, settled into a fair clip.

They turned on to what would be cleared for the rail in time. “This rate we’ll be there in about thirty minutes. Twenty if we push.”

Raylan kicked back putting a boot on the bracebar. He tipped his hat over his eyes. It was similar enough to the one that the Staties pulled that it drew Boyd’s eye. Meanwhile he attempted to kept his eyes on the road urging Zelda when she slowed. She was quite interested in a low hanging branch which give made her shy badly. If Raylan hadn’t been sleeping he leastwise was in some meditative state; he looked annoyed by the rude awaking. Body didn’t let him get down. “Just pull it back.”

“It snaps forward and spooks it worse we’re going to be in a word of trouble.” Raylan cut at the branch for a moment then twisted it free. It was too light to throw with any real feeling. Zelda pulled from the movement hard and the trap rocked, shuddered to a stop.

“Raylan,” Boyd started.

“Boyd.” Raylan tucked his knife away then crossed his arms. His hat had been knocked uneven. When Boyd was so kind as to mention it Raylan just took it off. He then shot Boyd a challenging look, as if such petty moves bothered him.

The Cumberland was meandering along the left all the while shining in the morning sun. Above was birdsong, wind making trees creak like clawhammer strumming. “Almost there,” Body said, but offered, “if you’re feeling unwilling for company then I can leave you here to walk back.”

“Mighty un-Christian of you,” Raylan pointedly uncrossed his arms while shifting low in his seat. He kicked up his feet, one over the other, tapping his foot. He flicked a hand forward, “Onward, Jeeves.”

Body clucked to Zelda. She seemed uncomfortable with it but just flicked an ear before moving on. Raylan looked up. Overhead the light was uneven though the bare braches. There was a bite to the cold now. Boyd pulled on some gloves using his teeth to pull them into place. A few minutes later he steered Zelda right. She grunted hauling up the incline while Boyd used the brake one handed to keep them from slipping back. Raylan watched for a bit, then commented, “Not bad at that.”

“Took a few times. I’ll admit I did test her patience the first day. However, I’ve treating it like shifting and it’s not even hard to pick up.” This trail was narrow enough that weeds scraped the sides and underneath as they passed. A double line of bare earth was beginning to form. Boyd brought them to a stop by the three-side and pointed Raylan to the house. “You can make yourself comfortable while I put her away.”

“The missus needs such tender care,” Raylan wasn’t paying too much mind, just stirring shit from some personal reason. He did stop and feed Zelda one of his hard candies as he passed her, patted her neck a couple of times. Boyd let him go without comment.

Boyd dragged the trap inside the three-side then hauled and staked the tarp side. He poured out some water for Zelda, rubbed her down and wicked her coat dry. “You did well.” He told her. “I appreciated your help today.” She blustered a bit then went to pull at the grass.   

When he came in the door Raylan was snooping. He looked up from the trunk at the foot of Boyd’s bed utterly unconcerned. In one hand was the Centennial with the lever action open. He tossed it onto the tight sheets. “Just making sure,” was all he said. He had also pulled open the curtains. The light was weak, milky across the floor.

Boyd crossed to the shelf of plates and took down the bottle. “I did say to make yourself comfortable, Raylan, and if you feel the need to disarm a box, then by all means.”  

Hearing a hammer pull to half-cock made him turn around slow. Raylan hadn’t drawn down yet, but he had taken his coat off. Tossed it across the bed with the hat on top. It left the pistols plain, one on each hip. Boyd set down the short glasses and poured until he felt like stopping.

“You pull wrong you’re liable to shoot yourself in the foot.”

Raylan blinked. “What in the _hell_ is going on?”

Boyd pointedly slid a glass across the table. “Take a seat. I’ll tell you.”

The marshal hesitated then picked up the glass. After a moment he threw it back. Boyd poured him another. They sat together. Raylan still looked uneasy.

Boyd opened the point first. “Where’s your phone?”

 “I buried it out in the woods. Out by Dizney.”

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Boyd reeled. “Jesus, what if someone finds it?”

“I burned it to shit first.” Raylan protest. “Got my wallet on me at all times, hid my Glock in the house.”

“Robert’s house?”

“What do you know about that?” He looked suspicious. As if people weren’t always yapping about Raylan since the moment he landed from Florida all that time ago.

“Just that you are ministering kindness in a man’s final days.” It came out almost sardonic but Boyd was trying to imbue a semblance of sincerity. Raylan missed it, like most things.

“Don’t be funny.” He was real bitter about that.

“I don’t aim to be, comedy was never my forte.” That was when Raylan started appearing none too pleased. He looked like he wanted to hit something, Boyd topping the list.

“Don’t bullshit me either Boyd. Don’t see why I need to justify anything to you. Fuck.” He sipped at the whisky. “Not even bourbon.”

“You want to track some down you can do it in your own damn time.” Boyd took a pull.

Raylan rubbed at his eyes. “Boyd, what are you doing here.” It wasn’t remotely a question.

“I went looking for you.”

He looked up, shocked all to hell. “You did what now?”

Boyd beheld the ceiling. “You went missing just when fall came in.” Then he studied Raylan across from him. “There was a whole manhunt, once they realized how serious your absence was. However,” he jammed a pointer finger at the table, “when your fine car was discovered out by Holmes Mill they did a bit of searching and managed to pluck your hat from the bottom with just enough blood for them to figure you got yourself done in.”

Raylan just blinked. “That don’t explain yourself any better.”

“I went for a walk. Seems I stumbled upon whatever phenomenon you uncovered. Then though this singularity I found myself in your company.”

“I don’t buy the shit you’re selling,” Raylan pulled his hands into fists. “This is crazy; how do I even know you’re real?”

“Don’t you dare go down that road, Raylan. That’s liable to get you and me killed if you start thinking that this is just a dream.”

“Prove it to me then,” he reached for his drink then seemed to reconsider and pulled his gun instead. It was still half cocked. He pulled the hammer all the way back.

“What do you expect me to prove with that on me?” Boyd pressed his palms to the table.

“You think you’re so smart, Boyd. Why don’t you think on it a moment?”

“Put the gun away.” Boyd glanced over at the rifle but that just made Raylan madder. Could hardly see it under the coat anyway.

“Not a fucking chance.” At that Boyd locked his elbows, loomed over Raylan. They glared each other down.

“I got something, alright? It’s in my pocket.” The gun didn’t waver as Body pulled his own wallet free. He flicked the lamented card across the table. “Got it from your Aunt Helen.”

When Raylan picked it up his mouth twisted. He blinked hard then looked away. He threw it back then un-cocked and holstered his weapon. “That was a cheap move.”

Boyd was at peace with the decision. “I have a few other things. Got a clipping out of the _Herald Leader_. You made page three.”

Raylan laughed weakly. “Never thought her the sort.”

“It was your boss’ idea – Chief Mullen. Trust me in saying that their Christian charity has a special bent.”

“Was the service nice?” He asked.

“Oh, I didn’t make it.” Boyd grinned harshly. “See I couldn’t leave it alone. I had a keen interest in the statute of limitations. You can’t be legally dead in Kentucky until the Attorney General signs off; this being after they look out for you for another few years.”

“That so?”

“I tried to get out,” Boyd wasn’t confessing anything he knew Raylan hadn’t attempted. “Figured out something was wrong when I couldn’t get a signal. The road being gone was another hint. Almost took my head off the fourth time I went down but then I supposed if you had somehow gotten though the drop I should go looking.”

Raylan smirked. “I landed on Kenny Talon. But since I didn’t make it back, and I assume you must have tried as hard as you claim, then our odds – “

“I abide in hope.” Boyd pointed out. “Look, I found you first Raylan. That implies some sort of – “

Raylan cut him off. “Finders keepers does not apply to people.”

Boyd’s smile dropped. “I heard that it might very much be the case in these parts, Marshal Givens. What do you know of Elizabethtown?”

Raylan shot him a disgusted look. “I knew you would be in this shit. What are you doing out here?”

Boyd stabbed two fingers at him. “I was hired on to teach the children of this county, when upon I was invited to a particular meeting, which I thought you might have an interest in. Don’t tell me you’re not – “

“Who invited you? I think it takes a certain level of trust and you, Boyd, are a slippery looking son of a bitch – “

“Your fellow lawman Mike Hagens.” That shut him up. Raylan breathed out hard, smacked a hand on the table.

“The _Gunsmoke_ fucker?”

“The _Gunsmoke_ fucker.” Boyd confirmed, “and the doctor and the mayor. The man who runs the grocery down by Coldiron Branch, and his financers who come up from Elizabethtown.”

 “Were you going to tell me…” Raylan shoved himself away, bent double like he was going to be sick.

Boyd scrutinized the table. It was fairly new. He finished his drink. He thought about pouring another, but it was coming on lunch and he was feeling a little nauseous. He swallowed down a hard, knotted feeling in his chest. Finally, he said, “I was going straight, like I told you all that time ago. Knew you wouldn’t stand for it.”

Raylan made a gasping noise that forced Boyd to stand.

“Raylan?”

The other man was rubbing hard at his face. He looked shocky, like he wasn’t even aware he was crying. “Jesus fucking _Christ_.”

Boyd carefully pulled the glass further away. He was repellent to pouring it out so he pointedly corked the bottle and moved it and the half-drunk glass to the shelf. After he set a few eggs to boil. He left Raylan to collect himself meanwhile. It was like after the collapse when Boyd just drove them out as night fell then just sat in the dark as Raylan sobbed. Then they went home and didn’t speak of it again.

Boyd stood over the pot. He heard Raylan moving around behind him. Then he heard Raylan ask, “How were you planning on doing this?”

Boyd fished out the eggs, dropping them into a bowl. “Who said anything about a plan?”

Raylan had hooked his crossed belted holsters to the back of his chair and sat back at the table. “I don’t know you to do anything you haven’t at least planned in advance.”

“You think I planned to get shot by you?”

Raylan shrugged without looking over. “I figure you at least thought on it.”

“Not for a moment,” Boyd replied honestly.

“ _Bull_ -shit.” But Raylan sounded amused. “So go on, what are you thinking of?”

Boyd set down the bowl, tossed a couple of hard rolls down. “I was inspired by one of your fellow marshals. Are you familiar with the name Willis Russell?”

The color left Raylan’s face. “Yeah,” was all he said. “I heard it.”

“He did undercover as a county clerk a few years ago in Owen, digging into the Klan. Had months of observations; under-reported crimes, abuse of power, what the _Times_ called a ‘catalogue of recent outrages’.” Raylan peeled the shell off his egg as Boyd talked, hissed when the steam caught his fingers. Boyd pressed the advantage. “He was supported by an unnamed C.I…”

Raylan grinned up from his egg. He took a bite out then shoved it into the side of his mouth. “You looking to be a hero Boyd?”

“I’d like to see you try and say nigger with a straight face, Raylan.”

Raylan stopped laughing. “Fuck you.” He seemed like he was itching to clout Body.

“Fuck you.” Boyd replied easy. “You wouldn’t last a damn second in their esteemed company. You got your opinion writ large all over you face. That’s why I’m the C.I.”

“You and your Nazi bullshit –”

“Raylan.” Boyd was tired. The tightness was back in his chest, cutting of his air. He reached for the other egg. “My friend, I have had a very long day, and – ”

Raylan snarled. “You could not conceive the week I have had – ” They both looked at Boyd’s hand, which was shaking quite badly. “Boyd?”

Boyd pulled his hand back. He cleared his throat, but it got lodged, and he had to blink away the haze. Raylan seemed disturbed and pushed the bowl over. “Thank you.” Boyd said.

“It’s nothing.” Raylan shoved the rest of his egg into his mouth. “You were saying?”

“I’ll be the C.I. and pass along what information I glen. Then we circumvent their plans. When we have collected enough for a prosecution we can present it to the proper authorities.”

Raylan choked down the egg. Boyd thought that he should have poured some water. “I know a prosecutor.”

“That is helpful.” Boyd tried to encourage the train of thought, but Raylan seemed to have added all he needed and was looking at Boyd.

“That’s the whole plan?” He asked.

“That’s the whole plan.” Boyd confirmed.

Raylan scratched at his jaw. “You make it sound pretty simple.”

Boyd laughed. “When, in all my time knowing you, has anything been simple?”

Raylan conceded the point. Then he quickly peeled the remaining egg and passed it over. “I supposed I should deputize you, make it all official.”

“Will I get a badge?” Boyd took a bite.

Raylan seemed to actually consider it. “Not a fucking chance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The event referenced by Boyd as a 'catalogue of recent outrages' was published in November, 1871 by the New York Times under the title "Catalogue of Recent Outages in Shelby County: A Fearful List of Murder, Arson, and Flogging Committed by a Band of Lawless Criminals" and was written by an anonymous author while Marshal Willis Russell's work, published in September, 1874, was titled "Offical Report of Owen County Outrages" and included the list of more than 100 men had been killed, wounded, or driven away ... by the Kuklux in the last three years; the numbers that composed their families were not as closely monitored, sadly.  
> Marshal Russell's work is summarized here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Willis_Russell
> 
> I remarked that I thought Foree [Kulux member] deserved no pity, and that if the negroes had killed the entire party it would have been perfectly right; that the negroes had been attacked without any reason, and it was their right and duty to defend themselves.
> 
> — Willis Russel


	4. Chapter 4

_Flung as if by chance beside a red clay road that winds between snake fences, a settlement appears. Rows of loosely built, weather-stained frame houses, all of the same ugly pattern and buttressed by clumsy chimneys, are set close to the highway. No porch, no doorstep even, admits to these barrack-like quarters; only an unhewn log or a convenient stone. To the occupants suspicion, fear, and robbery are unknown, for board shutters stretched swagging back leave the paneless windows great gaping squares. - from "The Georgia Cracker in the Cotton Mills" by Clare de Graffenried published in The Century Magazine, February 1891._

* * *

_Now_

Winona kicked her shoes deep inside the hall closet. The hall had been repainted a deeper tan, but it looked like the trim was pretty much the same. Fluffy winter coats were taking up most of the hanging space. All thick down in deep blues and purples.

“Don’t forget to hang up your coat!” Her sister called. It had been a long drive. She and Gary even talked about stopping for the night. Instead they had switched off in a WalMart parking lot. They hadn’t left early enough for that anyway, not if they wanted to be anywhere near on time.

Gary helped her out of it and hung them up side-by-side. Gayle hugged her tight, greeted Gary warmly enough.

“How’s business been?”

Winona smiled stiffly.

“The mall ended up being great investment,” Gary said. “But not… ah…”

“The horse didn’t quite work out.” Winona accepted a glass of wine. “But we now own the house again, and it’s right-side up.”

Gayle laughed. She handed Gary a glass as well. “Imagine that. Rick,” she shouted, “Winona and Gary are here!”

He shouted something back. There was the thundering of footsteps then a couple of kids tore past – “Tayor! Hannah!” – that set the plates on the counter rattling. Gayle rolled her eyes. “Kids,” she shouted. “Aunt Winona and Uncle Gary are here! We’re having lunch soon!”

Winona hid her laugh into her glass but didn’t take a sip. Gary had taken a seat up at the kitchen table, so she joined him. He threw an arm over her shoulder and she allowed it. She had been allowing him a lot this month. He was going to ask again, she could just tell.

Rick finally come out from where he was hiding in the back of the house. “Just moved the laundry,” he announced.

“Great.” Gayle passed off her own wine and checked the oven. “I think it’ll be another ten minutes. How about we move this to the dining room?”

When they were successfully relocated, the casserole on a trivet to protect a plastic tablecloth covered in capering dinosaurs, Hannah was trying to regale them with a story from school. It had left the main plot a while ago and was now firmly in the detailed recounting of a conversation at lunch involving no less then three different Ashley’s. Gayle grinned at Winona across the table. Then she noticed the glass and made a motion. Winona shook her head. She hadn’t even told Gary yet.

After the plates were cleared Gayle showed the men a few beers and the direction of the patio. The kids were absorbed in the television. She cornered Winona by the sink.

“So,” she made it an opening. Winona waited. Gayle rinsed a spoon again, sent it tumbling between her fingers.

“So,” Winona repeated, knowing she was being a bitch.

“You join AA? I don’t remember that working for Raylan.”

“He was never in AA.” Winona said.

Gayle threw some more cutlery into the sink. The noise was ungodly. “Exactly.”

“Jesus.” Winona tried not to roll her eyes. “Why are you even bringing him up?”

“He made you a liar – I mean he was better at it then you, I know, but you were never this cagey growing up.” This coming from the girl who had would disappear for days with her dumb punk boyfriend while Winona was trying to figure out braces and puberty.

Winona started drying the plates for something to do. “How would you even know – “

“The fact you were only married six years means something, Win.” Gayle picked at a difficult bit of food. She gave up and reached for the steel wool. "And that you sleeping with Gary for the last one." The time at Glynco was fine up until it wasn't. She had liked the idea of Miami but she hadn't liked the idea of Miami with Raylan.

“And the fact you’ve been married for twenty is what?” Winona angrily shoved some forks away. She shut the drawer slowly to avoid slamming it.

“An accomplishment.”

Winona laughed shortly. “Fine, fine. You were always better at life then me, sis. Come on, tell me what I’ve done wrong now.”

“We’ve known Gary for over ten years now. Hell, you had Mom meet him – ”

“Mom met Raylan.” Winona protested, hissing so she wouldn’t be overheard.

“Mom _hated_ Raylan.” Gayle snapped back, but she dropped her voice as well. The kids didn’t even twitch on the other side of the couch.

“She hated that he called her ma’am.” Winona protested. Gayle shot her a disgusted look.

“Don’t get distracted. How far along are you?”

“Almost twelve weeks.”

Gayle washed and dried her hands then crossed her arms. “I guess you’re keeping it then?”

“No shit.” Winona folded up the tea towel and set it by the sink.

Gayle sighed. Winona made a face. “Are you going to marry him again?”

“I don’t know,” Winona groaned.

“You’ve reconnected.” Gayle probably thought she was putting that diplomatically. Winona bit her tongue, glared at the counter for a second.

“I haven’t decided, Gayle.”

“I mean, are you even living together?”

Winona shrugged. “Fine. He’s at the house a lot, he’s got his clothes there, but half the payment came from…” She trailed off awkwardly. She didn’t even know how to put it. Gary had taken it with a lot more grace then he would have if the will was disclosed right after. But it seemed like time had mellowed him a bit; the rebound of the real estate market helped as well. He was comfortable in his position again. After Raylan vanished the Dixie Mob or whatever had pulled out like they’d been fingered for it. Art never told her outright, but that Wynn Duffy was in holding for over a month before they let him go.

Gayle uncrossed her arms slowly. “Are you serious?”

Winona fiddled with her bracelet. “I wasn’t the only one.” She hated that she sounded defensive. “It went to his aunt and that girl who was smacked around in his hometown.”

“Yeah, he was really considerate that way. A real do-gooder.” Gayle looked angry. “He’s still fucking up your life, Win. From beyond the grave but it anyone could manage it would be that man.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair. He’s dead and Gary knocked you up. Got you pregnant.” She waived a hand in the air. “Whatever you want to call it. You need to grow up and move on with your life. You’re too old to be acting like this.”

“You kiss Mom with that mouth?” Winona looked out the window. Gary and Rick were laughing. She was worried and stressed and didn’t need a lecture at three on a Saturday afternoon. They were butting up to Thanksgiving and this dry run made she feel nervous for the real thing.

“I like Gary because he tried to do right by you.”

“You saying Raylan didn’t?” Winona took a seat at the high counter and Gayle followed her.

“I’m saying he was too surprised by the modern world. You having a job, you having a degree -”

“You’re being unkind.” The protest was kneejerk but she felt like shit because she agreed with it too.

“Come on,” Gayle dropped her voice. “I met him once, and yeah, he was good looking but after a couple of beers I felt like I was watching _Dukes of Hazzard_.”

Winona snorted out a laugh. She made like she was holding a gun. “This is Sheriff Rosco P. Coltrane.” She laid it on thick then she grinned. “He hated it.”

“I’ll bet.” Gayle picked up her glass. “Maybe it made him homesick.” They giggled together. “And you never went down there? Met his parents?”

“His mom died some time ago. He never talked about it and he hated his father. Sometimes he would moan about not killing him.”

“When he was loaded,” Gayle took a deep swallow, topped up her wine. She raised an eyebrow at Winona. “Oh, am I wrong?”

“No, you’re not.” Winona shrugged. “None of this matters anyway.”

Gayle put her head into her hands. “It wouldn’t if it didn’t take you this long to tell me he paid off your house!”

“It was half of the mortgage and it’s only been a year.”

Gayle groaned, peeping at Winona through her fingers. “You’re lying to yourself. But, fine. Let’s pretend this won’t bother your forever. Head down to the courthouse and get civil married before Gary ends up paying child support while sleeping on the couch.”

“He doesn’t sleep on the couch.” Winona protested. “And he moved in pretty much right after…”

Gayle went to get a glass of apple juice, pressed it into Winona’s hand. She dumped out the rest of the wine and poured herself some too. “This is what I was talking about.”

Winona picked at the counter edge. “I’ll tell him when we get home tonight.”

“Why not spend it here?” Gayle raised a halting hand. “You don’t have to tell him now. Just relax, spend the night, leave tomorrow morning.”

“After church?” Winona hedged.

“Or before,” Gayle shrugged. “I’m not Mom. I’m not going to call you up crying about your immortal soul. It’s just time for you to make a decision, Winona, and stick with it. That’s all.”

“I know.” Winona finished the juice and got herself another. Gayle refused. “Fine. But I’m not staying for more than Friday night next week.”

Gayle laughed. “Mom is going to be thrilled, you know.” Winona felt the corner of her mouth twist. Gayle patted her hand, “You know I am too, and so will the kids.” She leaned close enough that Winona could smell the apple and the wine and a bit of perfume. “And so will Gary. He’ll be over the moon, I promise. He really, really loves you.”

Winona finally smiled a little. “Yeah,” she cupped the cool cup in her hand. “I know.”

They sat until Rick came for other beer and dragged them outside. Gayle brought the juice bottle with them but said nothing.

* * *

_Now_

There are things that cannot be explained, and after almost thirty years of service Tom Bergen knew some things would never get suitable answers. Such as why mothers killed their children, or kids enjoyed skinning a cat alive, or simpler shit, like stealing a cookie while driving a BMW and having a CCDW and living up in Louisville. Then almost losing all that except for the intervention of a good lawyer who cost almost as much as the car and house combined.

This was something that took the cake. He had worked twelve years in New Hampshire and he had seen some fundamental oddness, but this was rather different.

Robert Maclin was looking across the field with his binoculars. “There’s definitely about fifty of them. Maybe more, but they keep moving.”

“Animal Control coming?” Tom asked.

“They said twenty minutes.” The local vet was scanning one of the three they had managed to coerce over with stale gas station fries. One had happily eaten Maclin’s hamburger to their short-lived amusement. “No chips, clips, or tags.”

A.C. had called him and Maclin down for a wellness check because the land owner insisted that the cattle had appeared overnight. The woman was in her right mind no doubt about it.

Tom looked at Maclin. “Not even a brand?”

The vet flipped up a lip. The cow seemed completely unbothered. “Not even a tattoo. It’s like these cows are feral.”

“Could they be?” To Tom’s untrained eye they seemed to be in pretty good condition. Shiny fur and clear eyes. Like dogs, who you could tell were sick when they had dry noses.

The vet shook his head. “They’ve been socialized well; this seems to be mostly meat stock but I can count twelve dairy as well. They’re used to handling.” He encouraged the cow to pull up a hoof, which was interesting.

Tom’s radio crackled. “Tom I’ve got a 10-60, possibly 600, just down the road from you.”

Tom pressed the button. “10-4, can I have 10-20?”

“10-20 is five miles from your position down 153.”

Tom sighed and radioed again. “10-9 dispatch.” He turned the sound up high and waved Maclin over.

“10-20 is five miles south from your position down 153.” All mixed in the buzz of a poor connection.

“10-4, dispatch. Can I take Maclin with me?”

There was a pause, then “Car 54 10-96, Zone 8, Fleming, Hillsboro. Again: Car 54 10-96, Zone 8, Fleming, Hillsboro. Car 27 10-96 secondary location Zone 8.”

“10-4,” Tom lowered the volume. “Got that?” Maclin nodded so they said goodbye to the vet and climbed into the cruiser.

This part of Kentucky was flat enough, well north of the edges of the mountains and not far from Lexington. Maclin shoved a cereal bar into his mouth. It smelled appalling. Dusty and cloying.

“What the hell is that?” Tom asked. Maclin took a couple of tries to choke it down.

“My girlfriend is on this health kick. These are all natural, nothing added. It’s like a mix of nuts and berries and dates and shit.”

“Dates?” Tom repeated. “Don’t those give you the runs?”

“Not me,” Maclin insisted.

“You been eating them with any regularity?”

Maclin took a gulp of coffee. “I’ve had three this morning. They’re not bad, man.”

“Three? So that’s your fourth? You’re going to leave a trail back to the office.”

They ended up turning down Turkey Run and following almost to the junction. There was a man at the end of his driveway, nothing but empty flatness for ages. He was a farmer or farmhand type, sunbeaten with rough hands. A couple of his nails were missing on his left hand. On his belt hung a ball of thin coarse twine.

“Hi, Jim Dillon.” He shook hard.

Tom grinned. “Heard you got someone peeking around?”

Dillion shook his head. “No, they’ve been real polite. Can’t figure them out – they seem harmless but I’d rather they not be here, you know? I thinking they’re trying to get to Ohio.”

Tom put his hands on his hips. “Them?”

“Got a whole family back here.” Dillion turned. “I’ll show you.”

They trampled though the light dusting of snow. “That’s mainly why I called.” As they stepped the ground sounded hollow. “Heard there was a squall coming in. I couldn’t get them to move so I thought you might.”

“Did they threaten you?” Maclin asked.

“No, not at all.” Dillon pointed them out. “They seem to think they can just wait it out.”

Tom was staring at a covered wagon. Like from _Tombstone_ or something, a covered wagon with a couple of oxen and a folded down step. There was a butter churn hanging out the back and a child, no more than ten, perched there.

“What on Earth.” Tom gaped. He knew he was gawking.

“Something, ain’t it?” Dillon asked. “I figure they’re Amish.”

The kid waved at them. Maclin waved back weakly. Tom fumbled out his cell phone. As he waited for it to connect he asked Dillon, “How long ago did you call?”

“About fifteen minutes. Also emailed some photos to the FBI and the marshals, in case they were escaping a cult or something.”

“A cult?” Tom repeated just as the call connected.

“A cult?” Gutterson seemed amused down the line. “Tom, are you investigating the Case of the Materializing Mennonites?”

“Materializing Mennonites?” Tom felt like he was getting repetitive. Maclin was playing a game of semaphore with the kid. Waving his arms like a fool.

“That’s what I’m calling it. Feebs are on the way just in case it is cult shit.” Gutterson sounded too entertained.

“Why Mennonites?”

“Uh,” Gutterson coughed, distracted. “Because the guy sent us photos and I think one of the kids is wearing jeans.”

“Do Mennonites wear jeans?” The kid had abandoned their seat and was coming over. The poor child didn’t have a coat and looked cold. Wind whipped the skit around their legs tightly.

“Maybe Materializing Mennonites do.” Gutterson sighed. “I have things to do today Tom. Call me after the Feebs get in if one needs to be shot or something.”

“Or if you need to seize the oxen?”

“Call Art.” Gutterson hung up.

The kid was a girl, her hair up in one of those old time white starched hats with a brim. She grinned at Dillon. “Hello, Mister.”

Dillon looked sombrely back. “Hello.”

“Mama don’t want to come inside, on account of her not knowing you.” She even talked like a filmreel. Tom half expected her to say _tarnation!_ He had to smother a grin. Maclin looked thrilled.

“Do you want a snack?” He asked. Then he held out one of the heath bars.

She eyes lit up. “Thank you, Mister!” She took a bite while looking over them critically. “Are you marshals?”

Tom felt his stomach drop. Usually knowing the difference in that detail meant the parents had some prior contact with the law. Looking at the rolling accommodation, Tom couldn’t assume anyone there was on local PD payroll. He crouched down to the girl’s height.

“What’s your name?”

She glared at Dillon. “Ain’t you gonna introduce me? I’m a lady!”

Dillon looked startled. “Sure, her name is Melissa Lawless. There’s three other kids -”

“Four with the baby.”

Maclin took a few steps forward. “What baby?”

Melissa shrugged. “The baby. Mama’s calling him Will but it’s awful cold.”

Tom saw from Dillon’s face he had no idea about the baby. “Did you see the woman?”

Dillon shook his head. “I work up at four thirty. I was breaking frost on the back ten. When I came in around six they were just parked here. I talked to her though the,” he rolled a hand, “the canvas. She said she was fine and just needed to rest a couple of days.”

Tom dropped a hand on Melissa. His palm covered her whole shoulder. “When did your mama have the baby?”

“About two weeks ago.”

Maclin grabbed his radio. Tom shook Melissa for a moment, overcome. “I need to talk to your mama. It’s important.” He glanced at Dillon. “We need to get them into the house.”

Dillon nodded dumbly, then said, “I’ll get blankets”, and sprinted away. Melissa tried to shrug him off, but Tom wouldn’t let her. She was scrawny with downy hair on her face and neck.

“What are your siblings’ names?”

“Joshua, and David, and Christopher.”

“And you?” Just to be sure.

“And me.”

“No more?”

Melissa frowned. “There was baby Sarah and baby Will but they died.” Jesus.

“I thought you said your mom just had baby Will?” Tom was praying there wasn’t a dead infant in there.

“No.” Melissa hopped on the first step. “This is a different baby Will.” Then she clambered inside. He could hear whispering.

“Ma’am! I’m State Trooper Tom Bergen. May I come inside?” He could hear the girl talking and the words ‘lawman’ and ‘Dillon’ pretty clearly. When the noise died, he waited a moment more.

“You can com’on up,” a woman instructed though the cloth, “jus’ leave you’re boots on the step. Don’t want dirt in.”

Tom did as was asked. He noted the three young boys immediately one not older then twelve and the other two not younger then five. The woman did have a little baby all swaddled so he couldn’t see it. She looked no older then mid-twenties. Melissa was huddled into her side. The wood floor of the wagon was swept clean enough.

“Mrs. Lawless,” Tom introduced himself again, “I’m Tom Bergen with the Staties. Would you mind coming into the house to get warm?”

Mrs. Lawless shook her head. “Wouldn’t be right. Mr. Dillon’s wife ain’t home and I don’t think I’d be too invited being left alone.”

“Well, I can stay for a while.” Tom offered. “I have my own children, so I’ve been told I make a mean PB&J.”

Mrs. Lawless seemed to consider. “I don’t rightly know what that is,” she confessed.

“It’s a kind of sandwich.” One of the larger boys piped up. “Mr. Dillon said he can make them too.”

“Exactly right.” Tom looked around. There was piles of blankets and mounds of clothes. “There’s also heat inside. If you want to rest might as well avoid the storm too.”

The baby began to make a soft weak noise. Mrs. Lawless seemed torn so Tom offered his hand. “I’ll help you, Mrs. Lawless. You don’t have to worry.”

She gripped it tight, with strong fingers thick with callouses. “Alright, marshal.”

He didn’t correct her then, just helped her down. She wasn’t dressed for the weather either. There was a crack on the side of her right boot that left her sock exposed. The boys all had thin coats and fingerless gloves. He led them to the sliding back door. They all watched it awed as Dillon wrapped them in a collection of blankets. The smallest boy pressed his hands to the glass, leaving prints.

“It’s as clear as ice!” He then pressed his face to it, giggling. Mrs. Lawless tugged his hand.

“Com’on David. Be nice now.”

He and Dillon made a set of sandwiches then doubled it. All the kids were polite, neat and careful. They sipped at their milk and their mother nibbled at some toast. The baby looked healthy and pink in the warmth. They all smelled unwashed though, and Dillon was stating to look more uncomfortable.

“Which one of you is Christopher?” Tom asked after they slowed down chewing.

“That’d be me, sir.” Volunteered the oldest boy.

“Alright,” Tom sighed as noted Maclin entering the room. “What’s the ETA Bob?”

“A while,” he took a seat next to the middle boy who crammed the rest of his sandwich into his mouth in response. “How’s things?”

“Well, we’re all fed and warm.” Tom replied. Mrs. Lawless casually pulled her breast out and the baby latched on. “Where is your husband, ma’am.”

“Dakota,” she didn’t look up, just adjusted the kid. “So we need to get on the road soon enough.”

“Would you need to reach him, let him know you stopped?” Maclin offered.

“We’d come just about when the letter would so no point.”

Dillon offered, “You can use my phone.”

The kids were thrilled by this but Mrs. Lawless shook her head. “I ain’t got the number.”

“I can get in touch with the locals, set up a call from the station.”

“Please Mama,” begged David. “I wanna talk on the phone.”

She twisted up his ear quick as a snakebite. “No such thing!” The boy blinked back shocked tears. Maclin hunched forward to watch, but Tom shook his head in warning.

“How far are the Feebs?”

Maclin checked his watch. “They’re coming from Lexington.”

“Sorry to impose, Dillon,” he muttered. The farmer shrugged.

“No bother.” He whispered back. “Think we should get ‘em clean?”

Tom sighed. They were filthy on second look, grimy and hair limp. “If it’s not too much a bother.”

“Ma’am,” Dillon was downright diplomatic. “I’d like to offer you and your kids a bath if you want, seeing as we need to wait for the federals.”

Mrs. Lawless narrowed her eyes. “Where?”

“Well, I have a full bath but also a shower if you’d prefer.”

“Out by the barn?” She pursed her lips.

“Just up the hall. I’ll get the towels laid out while you make up your mind.” He left quickly too.

Christopher got his hands onto one of Maclin’s heath bars. “Never had a shower before.” He squinted at Tom. “Have you marshal?”

“I have. We have one at the station.”

 Christopher’s eyes went big. “I’m gonna be a marshal when I grow up.” He announced it docilly and his siblings agreed. Mrs. Lawless sighed.

“Might be,” she rocked the baby, “we get some learn’ in you a’fore you’re grown.”

Tom stowed that away. Melissa was half-asleep in her plate, and David was nodding. Joseph was passed out. Maclin touch his back for a moment. “After you wash up, we’ll get you by the fire.”

“Alright then,” Mrs. Lawless agreed. She looked down at baby Will. “Alright.”

Tom nodded. Dillon wouldn’t mind and it would keep them relaxed. When they filed out of the kitchen Manlin shadowed them until he reached the bathroom, Tom lagging.

“I’ve texted dispatch. We’re got CPB en route as well. Feebs are ten minutes out, they’ve sent in an officer from the deprogramming section as well.”

Tom rubbed his forehead. “Jesus, what a mess.”

“The kids’ll be alright.” Maclin tried to be encouraging.

“I hope so,” Tom grimaced at the thought of how wrong it could go. Then he went to wait by the door.

* * *

  _Then_

The horse, borrowed again from Robert, struggled through the weeping thick snow. The path to Pineville was appearing only as a furrow in the deadening quiet. Trees were bare and bending under the weight of sleet. Raylan was wrapped up in his coat and had at least three sweaters on and felt like he would be sweating if it wasn’t so cold. The canteens banged together like stones. The idea of orchestrating an asset seizure was abhorrent at the best of times. This weather would make it feel like hell. It was like the Lord had listened his prayers in the darkness of early morning stillness and replied, “Tough shit”.

Mike was avoiding him at work with a form of professionalism. Since returning from Elizabethtown Raylan hadn’t done much in the way of federal marshal duties - aside from insuring Boyd wasn’t up to shit. They would work in silence for hours. To amuse himself Raylan would flip though the daily or pencil in plans to build gallows that doubled as a band stand. Mike didn’t defer duties either, instead relying on a list of unofficial deputies who were paid out of county coffers.

The sheriff kept to himself and Raylan kept to his desk. Ruben was sober or pretending well enough to spend a few hours looking after Robert. There had been an uncomfortable crowding of the three of them during the night, the brothers sharing the bed and Raylan camped next to the stove.

He had caught Ruben nipped the laudanum but the man had no shame so berating him proved worthless.

A letter had been sent from Pineville at the request of the Marshal there, Thomason, who was looking to arrange the collection of a number of suspiciously relocated goods. It had led to Boyd and him arguing for the first time since they had reacquainted. Which showed how much Raylan forgot the other could be an absolute pain in the ass. The small circle of Baptists had installed themselves weekly into a building that functioned as the schoolhouse. There was something disconcerting about Crowder being surrounding by religion and impressionable minds. Prison had shown he was pragmatic with his use of others, for the most part.

“You need to quit.” He hadn’t looked up when Boyd walked in to the office. The snow threw up the sunlight as a flat, shadowless glare. It almost made the place come across as respectable which would leave right quick with the thaw. Raylan shuffled through the afternoon mail, stacking the correspondence for Mike at the edge of the desk. He had gone out for some errand, took his coat, hat, and gun meaning he didn’t aim to return for the day.

“Quit what Raylan? Visiting my dear friend during my fleeting evening respite, as you have seen the days have grown short and the darkness long.”

Raylan had slit open the summons from the Pineville marshal by then. “There’s coffee still, if you can stand to drink it.”

“Why, thank you.” Boyd instead pulled out the bottle in Mike’s deep desk drawer. It was low and he examined it critically.

Raylan cautioned him. “He drinks from that direct.”

Boyd twisted it in his hand, made a sound of distaste. “I’ll take the coffee then.”

“Get me a cup,” Raylan scanned the request then sighed. Assisting a writ of possession was always tedious but now, without digital records and photography, he knew it was going to be a pain in the ass.

“What? You seem brought low by news from a foreign -” Boyd gave him a cup which was notably lighter then the one he reserved for himself.

“Quit fishing.” Raylan cut him off. “I’m needed in Pineville, and you need to start informing me of things – it’s a vital part of being an informant.”

Boyd sipped at his drink. Raylan just used his own pittance pour to warm his hands.

Which meant that Raylan had to ride out while the snow was just high enough to slow the horse and make this tedious. He had mittens over his gloves, but his fingers still hurt. Enough time was gonna pass and then he would need to dig ice out from the hooves. Boyd was as fastidious with horsemanship as he was with his vocabulary and Raylan suffered through both. He had liked to think that the horse and he had come to a kind of understanding but rather it had been annoyed with him all the way back from the midlands. The fly-by-night had also soured their relationship.

It was easy enough going in that he followed the river. Snow wasn’t so deep that the horse was floundering. After a sort break to clear the horse’s hooves he threw a blanket on top of himself. The edges were roughly stitched and hung down to his knees. Underneath the horse threw off heat, steam billowing off as it fought forward. “You’re doing alright,” he encouraged.

It was happy enough ignoring him. Raylan had the hat low and tight. It did well for keeping off the snow -made him stay dry enough. In his boots his feet felt like ice; almost wet or numb but he knew it was just the cutting bitterness. Here and there he passed households lost under a white blanket, one with patches of the roof exposed were the heat musta been leaking. He could smell them afore he saw ‘em - the heavy stink of burning. It the cord hadn’t been cured right there was be cotton-like smoke batted out in the grey low sky. Some had the heavy metal taste of coal plucked right from the ground. It was featureless, the sky, all compressed steel beaten to a matte finish.

He would hum sometimes the superstitious pacts of his rearing meaning he never got a handle on whistling a tune. Now and then Raylan was aware of some natural phenomenon, the impact of snow sloughing off a bowed branch or even once the gunshot crack of a tree exploding under frozen weight. It was a bitch to drink water. Was so cold it hurt to swallow, cut right into the heat of his mouth and turned it dull. With no intention of wasting time he had left early from Boyd’s as he was near enough the road. Spent the night stubbornly on the floor and didn't wake the other man when he left. Raylan checked his watch. In the dim haze of the morning, which also felt distant, he thought he remembered winding it but he just as easy could have forgotten.  Second hand was moving fine and it was cresting eight meaning that he had been on the push for over four hours. He’d get in late enough for a room, considering it would take half the day just to get there. It kept surprising him how empty the area was – in his youth there were scatted townships and home rule which dwindled after the millennium to unincorporated regions, but this was less then that even. Time had unspooled to an untouched lonely county. He kept mark of where he would have passed places he knew, Dayhoit and Wallins Creek all the way to Molus. There he dismounted stiffly. He rubbed down the horse, checked it for good legs and whatever else Boyd ran his mouth about. Clear eyes and such.

“I don’t trust him,” Raylan found himself telling the animal. It rolled an eye at him as he rubbed the lower legs dry, rewrapped with cotton and leather braces. It worked its jaw, let its tongue loll when it was free of the bit. “I can’t. He’s all self-interest; he likes money and blowing shit up. That don’t change because there’s a shortage of meth and Oxy. Fuck, there’s readily available dynamite.”

Horse wasn’t much of a conversationalist, so Raylan packed the canteens with snow. It lipped at some branches, snapping them off and grinding down the deadened leaves. It was a struggle to get the bit back in, slopped drool over his hands. Was an extend effort to get them dry and back under layers.

The sun set early, just around four which was concerning as Raylan wasn’t certain where he was anymore. Darkness swallowed the trial behind and the path ahead. He squinted hard. The moon was low, making the world flat like it was built of cheap stage props. Around was washed out into starkness, all harsh white and fathomless black. Raylan wanted to stop but it was a weakness not weariness. When the river doubled on itself, he felt like he was near where Tejay was coming up – was coming onto Miracle as he could see up a holler that built up to Tennessee. They had cleared the top off near Balkan, just past Tejay a while back but it had floundered into slurry, thick sulfuric mire.

It was not that now, though; it loomed above with its stark profile. The sloping to the Cumberland was apparent and he could see where US 119 would follow the same curves like a mirror - reflection in asphalt and exhaust. It was so fucking cold. He leaned forward in the saddle, huddling to the animal. Bell Country was where the Gap ended and flattened out into Tennessee. He kept onward despite the cutting wind, hoping that the mountains would roll into hills, widen into deep seated hollers cradling towns spread glittering and electric. His mother used to drive out to Pineville when the country hospital was asking too many questions. They had three doctors and an emergency clinic.

There was exposed granite sheer faced like gravestones. The river was dark in the night, ice grinding together and catching on the banks. As the moon rose the horse slowed easing into a plod that moved Raylan like he was on a ship. There was no hitch to the drive to he let it trudge along at its pace. His eyes watered in the cold. The unsympathetic weather made his cheeks feel slapped and raw. When they finally arrived at the edge of town, passing what would’ve been East Pineville he cursed. The bridge was not there.

“Fuck.” The river was too deep. He looked along the line of edge, the hills crowning the crater. Raylan swung the horse outside the curve where US 25 East would have forked into US 119 to head right up the middle of the town. The horse was breathing too hard, so he got off and led it, snow up to his knees and bent into the slog. The blanket was tossed over the saddle to over its sides and rear. As it wheezed the eye he could see in the dark was white and rolling. Raylan knew Pineville was close.

Much was different but the river hadn’t changed; he knew what it ran by as well as the unmarked roads of his hollers. The map in his brain was etched in deep, tracing plots and blood as much as town lines. It was the unwritten laws of the Gap, the bloody history of Harlan and Bell and all the rest, the towns and the rules and the mines which were sunk in as much as the folk.  It was twenty minutes hard walking. Snow fell into the tops of the boots and compacted into squeaking icy clamps. Fell dripping to soak his socks, curl his feet into cramping painful things.

The main street of Pineville was churned with traffic. Down the middle was scraped almost clear – the edges were piled jagged and sharp. Raylan knocked off the snow clinging to his boots by kicking the edge of his soles against a building. Back when he come from Pineville was dying slow, houses crouched between razed areas, the narrow streets seeing little traffic. The sidewalks crumbled into the road or disused lots. As he let the horse away from where the bypass would fork the town rose from the murky darkness. Here it was what he knew of downtown, the flat front stores with no awnings, no bay windows, all large planes like empty eyes. Instead of brown paper taped up like shades there was a collection of businesses shuttered for the night:  a tailor, a printing house, a few restaurants with flickering candle-light, all clean and new.

Raylan caught a few men a yard down from a saloon and they pointed him to the office. He thanked them, led the horse slowly under the large clock jutting like the bow of a ship from the bank. There was a bar he hitched the horse to. Then he knocked on the attached door with a small metal plaque – U.S. Marshal Paul Thomason. When there was no sound within, he hammered loudly. Overhead in the second story a light finally flickered on. He watched it bob across a few rooms and when it vanished there was a tread upon a stair.

Marshal Thomason was unfortunate looking. He had sallow, pockmarked skin and a weak chin that receded into his throat. He sat Raylan by the fire, grate flung open and added another split log. Raylan looked around the spacious room. There were thick drapes of velvet, a pile carpet reaching end to end. A few lamps on the walls were lit. There was evidence of a woman in the cross-stitch wallhangs and a number of hats on the rack by the door, festooned with feathers and rich colors.

“We’ll need to quarter the horse.” Raylan felt he smoked a pack. The air was sharp in his throat.

Thomason squinted. “How can I help you, sir?”

His hands were so chilled that he almost tore the envelope. He handed the letter to Thomason but he had seen the cover and his eyes widened.

“Got this from you.”

Thomason didn’t take the letter. Instead he pressed his index fingers together until they blanched. “Ah.” He didn’t add anything.

“Ah, what?” Raylan coughed.

Thomason cleared his throat delicately. “Where did you travel from?”

“Harlan.”

Thomason’ mouth pulled up at one corner. “I thought Mike would send one of his deputies. You seem better equipped then his men.” His eyes flicked to the pistols. His mouth thinned to just about nothing.

“No,” Raylan bit off the word. “I’m Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens.”

Thomason rallied then. “Oh, I had heard that there had installed one out that way! I had no idea you would come yourself.”

“Really?” Raylan raised his eyebrows. He glanced down at the letter, but it was so short he knew the spirit of it. “‘Please send deputy at once, matter urgent’?” He skipped to the end flicking over the words. “At request of US Marshal’s Service… regarding writ of possession… that seem like something I should fucking ignore?” His hands were warmer now, feeling in his legs and feet that the damp cloth was wicking away any good sensitivity he had developed. “You think I should’a left this ‘till tomorrow, next week even? Son, I have been in this dirty fucking business long enough that _urgent_ is not used as lightly as you seem to regard it.”

Thomason smiled weakly. “I sent communication to most of the counties – I was expecting a response of regrets.”

“Regrets?” Raylan sighed. “You wanted to test my fucking mettle based on my excuses to your _urgent summons_?” He kicked back in the chair. “What opinion have you developed then?”

“You are certainly… driven.” He could tell Thomason was going for tactful. What a yellow-bellied fuck. Raylan rubbed the side of his face, tried not to groan. His trousers clung sodden to his legs and his feet heavy like lead.  

“Yeah,” he finally agreed. He checked his watch then tucked it away. It was creeping toward ten and he needed to get this shit figured out quick. “There a livery? I’m assuming that you’ll need help with the writ anyway?”

Thomason nodded. “You just go two streets up and hang left. There whole run up there is boarding. The horse can stay there as well.”

“As you say.” Raylan stood. He hadn’t even taken his hat off. They shook briefly.

“They do a good breakfast, Lizzy Mae’s. I’ll meet you there,” Thomason rolled his shoulders. “Say eight? And if you stay for another night I can introduce you to my wife and her sister.”

Raylan tried not to show how little he’d enjoy that. “Sounds fine.” Thomason followed him all the way out the door.

* * * * * * * * * *

The alarm was shrill – Raylan almost bent the hammer trying to get it shut off.

“Fuck.” He had gotten a room with a free-standing bed and wardrobe, jerry-rigged a clothes horse by the fire to dry his things. His socks were stiff with holes all along the toes. He had tried to darn them but the cloth around the stitching was beginning to wear as well. His trousers held strange creases.

He scrubbed under his arms and between his legs in the cold of the room, tried to soap grit from his hair over the washstand with boiling water; no plumbing meant he was limited to what was provided – that and a chamber pot. It scalded his scalp and tricked down his back but he felt clean, awake even. Using a flat brush he combed his hair quickly barely looking in the mirror.

Patches of his jacket, at the shoulders and elbows, were muggy but suitable. When his hat was affixed, tugged low he felt settled. He tucked away his billfold badge and watch, jerked on the pin badge from Washington. It still made something childish and giddy kick in his chest. Badge pinned to his chest while doling out justice. Raylan was the law, coming down on his horse and … he shook off the rising feeling with annoyance.  It was a duty, and a job, not a game. None of this was inclined to be easy. Getting too relaxed would get him killed.

He got himself the coffee while grabbing the seat in the dining area with the best view of the front door and windows. Raylan spotted Thomason before he was seen. In the light of day the other marshal didn’t look like as much a coward. He was carrying a portfolio. Raylan pushed away his plate, smeared with the vestiges of beans.

“Good morning,” Thomason settled himself.

“Morning.” Raylan gestured with his cup. “Coffee?”

Thomason batted a hand. “Not now. Wanted to run this by you, make sure you were still in.”

Raylan nodded. “Alright.”

First thing Thomason pulled was the writ. “Issued by district court for us to take possession, provisionally, of all the property and effects of the debtors.” He displayed the embossed seal. Then he tapped the defendants, two names: Bartholomew Boland and Ethan Witman. “Boland and Witman ran a firm,” Thomason pulled the summary, “which proceeded into involuntary bankruptcy, again through the court.” Raylan nodded, scanned the information.

“What did they do?”

Thomason scratched his jaw. “They transferred goods from their property involution of the bankruptcy statue to LePenn & Co., a firm of similar nature to the defendants.”

The cup was returned to the table. “You have to be fucking joking.” Raylan pulled the summary closer. “We need to go into a firm, inform them that we will be seizing and removing $25,000 in goods because the creditors alleged those goods had been transferred in violation of the bankruptcy law?”

Thomas waved a hand over the papers. “We are in the clear here, man.”

“Has there been an assignee over the estate of the bankrupts?” Raylan asked. He hadn’t seen one, just a prosecutor and the defense was suspended until funds could be determined.

“Not that I saw.” Thomason seemed unconcerned. “I think… here, we retain the property until the assignee is determined.”

Raylan tried to run a hand through his hair, ended up adjusting his hat. “That’ll look just fine Paul – tell me how happy your people will be when we take this shit then keep it in your office.”

“The law is on our side.” Thomason insisted. He gathered away the papers. Raylan drained the coffee, sucked a bit when he ended up with a mouthful of grinds.

“Sure.” He let Thomason stand first. He seemed the type to need that kind of perception of himself. “It’s just over?”

Thomason tucked the portfolio under his arm. “Not even a five minutes’ walk.”

When they were on the street Raylan took the side by the road. “This not going to damage your reputation?”

“I have earned it fair,” Thomason tipped his hat to a few women as they passed. Raylan belatedly nodded. “It’s something I am quite proud up.”

“It better stand up to scrutiny.” Raylan commented. He ducked under a sign swinging free, New Clothes and Wares, shot a look at the men fighting the upkicked wind.

Thomason drew to a stop in front of the LePenn & Co. firm. The paint was new, a severe green with gold letters. Up to the hilt in lawyers will ill-gotten goods – not much different then Raylan remembered. “I have the itemized list of goods,” Thomason said aside as he knocked. “Let me do the talking, they know me and we’re on terms.”

“Good terms?” Raylan was amused by the lack of response. He peeked in one the windows then noticed the names penciled across the pane. Jesus, they weren’t even hiding it. Inside there was at least four people at desks and one coming over to let them in.

“Can I help you?” The kid looked too nervous to not know he was up shit creek. Well dressed with slicked back hair and a city accent, Louisville maybe, or somewhere in Tennessee.

“Hello, yes,” Thomason started. He was being too friendly.

Raylan pushed forward, flashed his badge, “US Marshals. Mind letting us in?” He smiled a bit. The kid looked over his shoulder. Twitchy as a rat. Raylan grabbed just above the handle and leaned in. It opened like a charm. “Thank you kindly.” He tipped his hat.

Thomason followed close. Raylan resisted the urge to kick him. He was getting more prone to violence the longer he spent around shitheads. The kid was walking backwards, stammering.

“Just get us your boss,” Raylan suggested. “Don’t need to talk to you at all.” The kid froze. “Go’wn,” Raylan encouraged him with a nod. He scampered off. They stood in the middle of the office space. There were two frosted-front closed offices with etched names hastily scraped off. Raylan could almost make out _Ethan Witman_ on the closest one.

Thomason was fuming quiet, like Art used to. Raylan ignored him for the time being. The other office door let in the kid then let out an older gentleman.

The boss was better dressed then his lackeys, tried to come across like Boyd, all big words and smiles. Most of his hair was grey but dark at the temples. The man carried himself like he knew he could be imposing if he had the mind to. “What can I do for you gentlemen?” He spread his hands like a showman allowing them to survey his domain. Kid made a break out the back and no one stopped him.

Raylan hooked a thumb at Thomason. “We’re here to take possession of the goods you bought to circumvent the bankruptcy order of the court on your friends, and I understand that, having friends myself. Seems to me that most of this would be covered under the order though, right Paul?” Thomason scowled. “What’s on the list?”

“Desks. Chairs. One typewriter.” Thomason muttered.

“Right.” Raylan tapped them as he repeated. “Desks.” A sizable oak number. “Typewriters.” A Remington in sleek black with a mechanic keys reaching like spiderwebs. “What else?”

The boss’ smile turned stiff. “I don’t suppose you are concerned with breaking and entering, sirs?”

“Marshal Service.” Raylan shrugged. “We knocked, we announced; hell, your boy opened the door.”

“My boy.” The boss repeated. “How refreshingly quaint. Where are you from, sir?”

“Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens.” They shook. He knew where Raylan was from, or though he did at any rate. “I’m supposing you’re the esteemed LePenn?”

“I am.” LePenn tucked a hand into his vest pocket. “Do you need to take the goods now? It will greatly affect our ability to make a profit if all our items of service are removed.” He was still talking like this was friendly, as if he could manage the outcome.

“Heard the country seat opened here a few years back.” Raylan commented.

Thomason flinched away and LePeen looked at him with cold eyes but he spoke to Raylan alone. “Yes.”

“Then you can take up your complaints with them. Say, do you have the boxes these came in? Would help with the packing up.”

LePenn recoiled slightly. “No.”

Raylan rocked back a step. “Nothing? No, what, straw? Batten cotton?” He could see the wheels turning in Thomason’s head. There you are son, come the fuck on. The whole place was a dodge.

“No.” LePenn tugged down his vest, clenched his jaw. “If you need to take it all I suppose I’ll get an early lunch.”

Raylan took a moment to check the time. He glanced at LePenn from under his brim. “Not even ten.”

“Then a drink.” He brushed past, checking his shoulder into Raylan’s. LePenn was slightly taller and bared his teeth.

“Enjoy.” Raylan said.

The employees followed their boss out. Thomason looked around. “You going to help me pack this shit up?”

“Thomason, I’ll even buy you dinner.” Raylan fished in a drawer, tossed him a quarter. “Courtesy of the US government.”

* * *

_Now_

Her name was Mary Alice Stackerlee and she was looking at intent to harbor which would give her a rap of no more than a year. Tim was attempting to explain this over the racket of chicken and child giving them hell in the front yard. It was fucking cold, frost about killed everything above knee height. The only concession to the season was a limp run of Christmas lights along the shallow slope of the double-wide.

"I'm telln' you," the cigarette between her teeth trembled. There was makeup smeared around her unfocused eyes. "I got no reason to let 'em back. He done broke the television last time. Took me four months to replace it but -" then she was screaming into the house, holding the smoke so not to lose it, "Delilah! Dee-li-lah! Get yer ass ov'er here!" Tim didn't point out he wasn't even supposed to be living here after 2006 under court order.

The girl was an aged sixteen, with wrinkles and bags under her eyes. She got meth teeth with cracking fingernails. Tim smiled tightly. The issued coat he wore had a thin lining which did fuck all in the wind. His face felt chapped and lips dry. His eyeballs were fucking sticking in his head. No snow in Texas, Jesus, but he couldn't shoot people. 

"You here about school?" The girl wore a sullied expression with dull eyes. Something deep inside her had guttered and died. The dress she wore was too large, flopping around her, color of old fish; a dingy off-yellow like stained teeth.

Tim shook his head. "I'm not, miss." He flashed his badge. "I'm looking for a man, your father, and I was wondering if he spoke to you at all?"

"The court said he ain't allowed to." There was a flicker of fear gone as soon as it had come. "On account of what he done to me and Meg."

"I know he isn't," Tim tried to comfort her. It was like talking to a wall, sagging with the paper peeling off. "He shouldn't but I want to know if he had or has recently."

Delilah picked absently at the inside of her elbow. "Nah. He ain't," her gaze was arrested by the chickens and she didn't finish her thought, whatever it was.

Tim took a shallow breath. "Reason I'm out here is someone tipped us off. That he talked about coming back here, trying for a low profile."

Mary Alice shook her head. "Ain't true. He done awful things."

"You were together a while," Tim held no impression one way or another in his voice. "About seven years, I was told. So, I mean, that'a commitment, you know. Long time to be with a man. Especially with what he did to those you care about."

Mary Alice took a drag. "I didn't know." Delilah was shrinking back out of the light, shadows cutting her face deeply lined. "I didn't fucking know," this time snappish. Resistant, which Tim placated quickly. 

"I'm sure." His hadn't shot someone in four years anyway. It was just about normal, which is what everyone was grateful about but wouldn't say with Raylan dead and gone. Finally, quiet. With a glance at the child, still running around, barefoot and streaking up a storm, he asked, "You mind I get out of the cold?"

Delilah blinked slow. Then she said, "Wanna drink? We got tea." Her mother said nothing but stood aside. Tim went up the step, careful not to trip over the saddle of the storm door, which was coming off. He craned back to check the kid who was busy shoving something into its mouth.

“Come on,” Delilah waved him in. There was a screaming in her eyes, he could see, and there was a shadow creeping just behind him. Her hair had been dyed but was growing out dark at the roots. Tim could feel fear dripping like ice water down his back. In the open plan was a laminate section for the kitchen and a card table and metal folding chairs. He took the one against the wall, which put him at eye line to the TV. It was playing cable news at volume. The talking heads had empty gaping mouths. Just in front was a couch occupied by a thinning head of hair and the stench of piss.

“Gamma,” Delilah hissed. She set a glass of iced tea by Tim’s hand then shook the old woman’s shoulder. “Gamma, we got a guest. You want tea?” The woman’s head flopped, and she gave a shuddering wheeze. Mary Alice looked them all over then disappeared down the short hall, slipping into a room but didn’t turn on the light.

Tim picked up the glass then set it now. It was dotted with water stains, thin slick feeling on the surface. The sink was full - all the dishes holding stagnant murky water. There was back mold creeping up towards the ceiling. The splashback behind the stove was crusted. There was the perfume of cooking oil and greasy meat, undercut with something sour. Nearby something was buzzing like a fly caught in a lamp. Tim felt panic catching in his chest. This was not the time to lose his shit. He shot a quick text to Rachel – needing backup, suspect possibly on location – then watched Delilah tip the iced tea into the old woman’s mouth. She chocked it down but said nothing. All though it the television blared. Then she looked at him; she had clear eyes, like bluebells, but her pupils were small. She left the old woman, the stink, made her way cat-like towards him. Her bare feet suck to the laminate tie.

“You looking for something?” She tugged at the shoulder of her dress showing the strap of her bra. It had left angry lines in her skin, which was flaking in pale patches.  Tim kept his attention locked on hers, half an eye to the hall behind her. “You looking for what Daddy did?” Her other hand dropped to her waist. “I can show you.” She was tugging it up, the cloth crumpling, catching on her ragged nails. The pink blanched out her hands, made them look large with overlong fingers. Tim blinked rapidly.

“I’m not interested.” He kept himself calm and his voice firm. “I already know.”

Delilah froze then snorted in disgust. Then she was suddenly acting her age, flopping on the couch and pulling out a cell phone and settled in to ignore him. Her mother was gone for seven long minutes. When she came back she didn’t get close, just stood across the room.

“You gone yet?”

“I haven’t seen the rest,” Tim tried for apologetic.

They were both startled by a hammering at the door. “State Police!” It sounded like Robert Maclin, but Tim unsnapped his holster just in case. Mary Alice twisted up her face. She was working her way towards a fit. He could smell the tension like snapped rubber.

“I’ll get it,” Delilah was shoving herself up with one hand when Benny Green burst out of a room down that narrow short hall and made for the front door. Tim had stood and drew down by the time Green cottoned on to the changes in the room.

“I suggest you just stop where you are and let your daughter get the door.”

“Ain’t my daddy,” the girl said, cool, then opened it for Trooper Maclin. He nodded to Tim then peered around.

“Seems you got this, Tim.”

“I was worried about the geriatric erratic.” The joke didn’t come as well or as easy, but Maclin was kind enough to ignore it. Tim was on his game with the shot. He had that laid-back, like sitting on a beach.

Green went into the cuffs with no complaint. Tim didn’t even have the energy to sigh when the phone in his pocket began to vibrate and vibrate and vibrate, and he didn’t even check before he answered. “Hello?”

“You good?” Rachel was cold as ice some days, when she was feeling especially thin-skinned. Usually, though, she was the consummate professional – which is why she was Art’s real favorite. Tim could rely on that.

“I’m real good, Rach. Got him like a hole in one.”

“And you don’t miss.”

“You’re God damned right.”

She snorted a laugh, then gave him a brisk goodbye. “Art wants to circle the wagons at four. I’ll save you a seat.”

“Alright, thanks.” He waved Maclin off then called for a pickup to local holding. Any luck and he could snag some chili before he really needed to be back. He was putting the whole thing behind him, like kicking a box off the overpass. Maybe he'd even get a soda.


	5. Chapter 5

_The Great Revival at the beginning of the nineteenth century had repercussions that affected many aspects of Kentucky culture. Evangelical religion emerged from the revival maelstrom so invigorated that from the time on it characterized Kentucky Protestantism. It was an individualistic and otherworldly faith that ministered to the expectations and frustrations of the average people. Despite the prevailing myth of easy social mobility, thousands lived only slightly above the subsistence level. These were not the wealthy nabob of plantation legend, but rather the majority who filled the church pews, worked their few acres, and lived and died in obscurity. A religion that placed higher values on salvation and piety than on one’s world estate surly met the needs of most Kentuckians.  - Religion in Antebellum Kentucky by John B. Boles_

* * *

  _Now_

Mrs. Lawless was sitting pretty calm in the small room. The clothes she was wearing were thin and light blue, with no strings and soft helms. Someone had set up the area with a few armchairs and a low coffee table in an arrangement of a interview room. The CPB agent had a tape recorder out with a thin folder next to it. Rachel had her own notepad pen swapped for a weak-tipped pencil. The file was thin on even the most basic details. Her DOB was listed as Jan 1 1994 – the month and date bring uncertain. There was a note about paranoia and delusions. The lawyer was a man with manicured nails and well on his way to using a comb-over. Mrs. Lawless had refused her first lawyer which was found by the court to be on religious grounds - which Rachel thought was thin but Mrs. Lawless wasn't a normal case. 

The CPB agent was young - maybe too young - but Rachel knew this wasn't her ride. Art had shuffled her over for the transport, so she had just nodded and got on with the job. Needed the lay of land first for Reardon so here she was. At least it was a break chauffeuring Carroll around the hills and dales, having to avoid talking and trying to kill time at the same go. Tim was down the country after following up a fugitive.

They had signed in their weapons, the badges even, only kept hold of the thin laminate ID cards. Mrs. Lawless had clever eyes but seemed to lack anything in the way of a proper education. The file had her quoted verbatim, the she could read the Bible and hymnals and some pastors pamphlet, which had been recovered in the wagon. Lexington Animal Control had the oxen quartered with the livestock and CPB had the kids at the Children's Hospital for observation. The kids were malnourished, and the baby underweight, small for five or six weeks. They also were limited to reading the Bible and that brought Rachel here, sitting in on a conversation before Mrs. Lawless' arraignment with the judge. Court wasn't even sure she knew what arraignment was. Regardless she was going forward on counts of child abuse, neglect, and endangerment.

"So, let’s get started," the CPB agent clicked on the recorder. "For the record, I'm Agent Margret Rae Harper with Deputy Marshal Rachel Brooks, having an observed conversation with Mrs. Kathleen Lawless accompanied by her court appointed representative. Do you understand that this conversation may be used for your defense as well as your prosecution, and will be taken into account in your arraignment later this week?"

Mrs. Lawless nodded. 

"Let the recording show that Mrs. Lawless nodded," Rachel said then suggested to the woman, "It would be easier if you spoke, alright?"

"Alright." Mrs. Lawless looked over at her lawyer then at the machine. "Will I be able to see my children?"

"That is going to be decided at the arraignment, Mrs. Lawless," Agent Harper smiled softly. "I have a few questions and then Marshal Brooks has some too, about the animals and things. So, we’ll start small. Where were you born?"

Mrs. Lawless shrugged. "Out by the Gap."

"Could you be more specific?"

"My daddy and mama moved a lot when I was younger," Mrs. Lawless was picking at her nails. "I know where my sisters were born, and my little brother."

"And where was that?" Harper asked.

"Well, Ruth was born in Ireland and so was Mary. Then there was Francis in Boston and then Sean in Lexington. Then they had me and Gert."

"Where are they now? Have you been in contact with them?"

Mrs. Lawless shifted awkwardly. "Most moved West, for the coal and Francis went to Virginia after the war. I think Gert might be still in the Gap. Her husband is a farmer - I mean that everyone out there does the land but my husband got a claim and send up funds, so we were going out to it."

"This claim is where?"

"The Dakota Territories."

"The Dakota Territories." Rachel repeated. The lawyer seemed uncomfortable with the line of questioning. They had tried to find evidence of the land claim, but it didn’t seem to exist. Neither did the Dakota Territories at any rate. Not anymore.

"Let the record show that Mrs. Lawless had not made any statement of spousal abuse, financial abuse or any other crimes within or outside the confines of her marriage."

"Noted," Agent Harper even made a show of writing it down. "Now, Mrs. Lawless, how old are you?"

"About twenty-four."

"And you were married at?" She and Rachel made notes of the answers and the time.

"About fifteen, because there weren't many Catholics. Daddy had me and mama go out to Bardstown where I met Andrew. We got married there then he moved back home with me."

"And Gert?"

Mrs. Lawless frowned. "She married a Baptist. Last I heard of her there was another babe coming, would be their seventh."

"You have five."

"Yes." Mrs. Lawless grinned. "Five healthy babes, praise the Lord God." The way she said it was an affirmation, not an expression. She was pleased by that and Rachel made a note of it.

Agent Harper smiled as well. "What about the other two?"

"The two I lost? Well, it happens you know. Some are called home earlier." Mrs. Lawless stopped picking her nails. "It was hard, but we had them buried with my parents, in town."

"Town being?"

"Dizney." Rachel felt a sick thrill. Right where Talon was found as well, just under the ground.  

"Was there a school in Dizney?" Agent Harper asked. "A clinic?"

"I don’t suppose," Mrs. Lawless tipped a hand, "but we didn’t live there. We were up in the hill, only went down a few times a year at that."

"You wouldn’t have sent the children there for an education?"

"It was a three day walk in the summer, Mrs. Harper. And having children yourself I’m sure you know that us mothers have a duty of education ourselves. They can all read and do sums - they learned the sums off Mrs. Lewis. I myself am not good at sums." She seemed slightly ashamed by this. “And there was a teacher, worked five months out the year by Mount Pleasant, who would come up the holler in the off months. He was very good with us, could stay two weeks at a time.”

“That’s alright,” Agent Harper moved on. “Yet they were never enrolled in school?”

“No. But they did have that teacher, can read things like poetry…”

“And you never took them to a doctor?”

“I took the girl once, on account of her daddy and I thinking she was poorly.”

“But no vaccines?”

There was no recognition on Mrs. Lawless’ face.

“Are you aware of the term vaccination?” Agent Harper asked.

“I’m not.” Mrs. Lawless resumed picking at her nails. “Should I?”

“They are a series of shots to prevent diseases. A run of inoculations, immunizations, jabs...”

“Inoculations?” She asked. “For the epidemics?”

“That’s right. Have you or your husband had any? Have your children?”

“Well, I can’t say ma’am. I know they all got the kinepox so’s they should be fine regarding the smallpox.”

“Smallpox?” Agent Harper put down her pen. “Have you had smallpox Mrs. Lawless?”

“No.”

“Marshal, Mr. Stranger – have you been vaccinated for smallpox?”

“I haven’t,” Rachel said slowly. “Sir?”

The lawyer nodded. “I was born in ’70, but I think that was the last time they did it.” He seemed exhausted.

“Alright,” Agent Harper took a deep breath. “It’s not a risk, obviously, and you’re too young anyway Mrs. Lawless. Can you tell me about kinepox?”

“I cannot. Just that it keeps you from getting the illnesses. Mrs. Lewis was told to by that teacher in Mount Pleasant and so we got it done.”

“Getting the smallpox?”

“Yes.”

“And you thought that your children were at risk of getting smallpox?”

“Yes, very much so ma’am. It’s a terrible thing.” Mrs. Lawless shuddered in a tight contained way. “Awful, like they’re going right to hell and screaming to raise the dead.”

“Right,” Agent Harper straightened up her spine, “we’ll set that aside. Can you tell me about other treatments?”

“Just what my mother knew, or some of those hillwomen - herbs and the like.”

Agent Harper shot Rachel a significant look. “Alright, we’ll have some easy questions now. So, can you tell me the year?”

“Sure,” Mrs. Lawless smoothed the top of the table, “it’s 1881.”

Rachel scored a line on her paper. Her eyebrow arched, and the lawyer caught her expression and nodded.

“And who’s the president?”

“Hayes. It was Grant before him, they were both in the war, far as I remember.”

“Thank you Mrs. Lawless,” Agent Harper gestured toward Rachel. “Marshal Brooks might have a few questions for you.”

Rachel rechecked her notes. She couldn’t show how thrown she was. “I’ll make this quick, Mrs. Lawless. Then we’re going to send this in as fast as possible.”

Mrs. Lawless smiled tightly. “Sure, Mrs. Brooks.”

“Who owns the wagon and animals?”

“My husband does, but the things in are the both of ours.”

“Do you have licence for them?”

“The oxen?”

“Yes, or a bill of sale?”

“There was a leather portfolio under the chest – it should have everything, the bill, the deed for the claim. All of it.”

“Thank you,” Rachel needed to call Nelson and have him comb the vehicle again. There hadn’t been anything like that. “That’s all I need.”

Agent Harper wrapped up the interview. When she shut off the tape, the lawyer sighed, then said, “We’re going for a plea.” He didn’t say why but Harper shot Rachel a solid look. No one in their right mind would be this confused about the world unless they were crazy or contained.

“I do, just…” Rachel cut herself off. “Nothing to do with your case ma’am, so don’t feel like you have to answer.” She forestalled Mr. Stranger by saying, “This is nothing to do with anything I promise. Ma’am, do you know Raylan Givens?”

Mrs. Lawless blinked. “He’s down in Harlan, Mrs. Brooks. Thought you’d know, both being Marshals and all.”

“Just asking, like I said,” Rachel stood slowly. “Thank you for your time Mrs. Lawless, you’ve been a great help. I’ll see you at the arraignment.”

Agent Harper was right behind her out the door. “Stranger is going to go right for insanity, Brooks. There is no reason for you to be in that courtroom.”

“There's still transportation,” Rachel pulled out her phone. “Good work in there. Can you get me the transcript?”

“By tomorrow night at the earliest, I have a backlog.” Harper held the door for her.

“I understand.” Rachel hurried though. “I have to make a call.”

She misdialed Art’s number twice before she remembered speed dial and just hit 2. Then she hit the down button for the elevator, thinking of what she’d need out of medical transportation.

* * *

_Then_

Jennie Clooney checked over the socks drying, the level in the coal bucket, where the meat sputtered in the pan and whose steam dogged her with a rich smell. Jeb was hauling in the water which she dodged in a two step move. She tugged the pal from his hands then poured it into the large hammered jug. 

“You took too long,” with a firm hand she directed him to the table where his siblings sat. “And don’t forget...” but he was already bowing his head to pray. Jennie plated the food, mostly grits with small disks of pork shiny pink. As they ate she paced and chewed on a heel of bread. It might make her hair curl but she was too spun up to worry about that. 

“I want you all to pay real close attention.” She paused to finger comb Benjamin’s hair a moment. He got the ragged cowlicks from his father. No need to fret over bead crust for him. “Get some book learning; and some sums and Anna - is it alright you keep an eye on the smaller ones?” 

“Sure mama,” Anna said around a mouthful of food. 

“Good.” Jennie took a critical moment. “One, two, three, four. Alright, get on up we’re moving!”

As they trooped out the door, she handed out coats then grabbed the smaller coal bucket by the cut of the door. It was only half full. Just outside the door the leaking heat made the snow deep but wet. They went out single file, Jeb leading, until they come up the road which was a slurry but easy passage. The bucket clattered as she carried it. Anna kept Rose in hand, tagging after her brothers with a smile. Despite the rumors Jennie had given each child some bread and jelly. No telling even if there were going to be free food on the regular. 

Besides, she had her pride. 

The building that was now the church and the social hall and the school had been a mixed hard side barn gone to disrepair. Jennie hasn’t been in the circles of knowing what befell the owners, but whatever it was had run them out was during the War for certain. It had been re-roofed in places. There were a few tracks coming the opposed way up from town. Those mothers were dressed in brighter colors, with high buttoned shoes. Jennine didn't look down at her wooden clogs. They had flocked near the road, moving little and speaking in hushed tones.

There was a brick chimney with a crude tin cover letting out the thick charred color of wood burning. The cross on top was very new as were the handles on the door. The wheels and track it ran on had been steel brushed to a dull polish. She followed her children right to the door. A few of the other mothers were there, mostly from the local hollers or the north side of Mount Pleasant. Jennie checked her brood quickly. Around was as quiet as a grave. 

Rose had already managed to get the hem of her dress damp. Jennie crouched quickly to wring it out. “Get this dry,” she muttered. “You’ll catch something.” Getting this low to the ground she could feel her hip catch, popping like a dry stick.

“Is the door unlocked?” Anna stopped just short of grabbing the large handle. None of the other children had ventured as close.

“Go on and pull it.” Jeb suggested while he swung his pal not paying the least bit of attention. A few boys his age were smacking a tree with sticks. Benjamin was talking in that baby way with a few of the other young children, all small and round faced with mittened hands.

Before she could tug it, someone hauled the door from the inside. Jennie hastily got upright. It sent out a gust of hot air which made her feel all the colder when it rushed away. 

In the doorway was Mr. Crowder. He gestured grandly, which made Anna giggle a little and the children slowly begin to trickle inside. Past him was a single room with square tables and a fair desk, stacked on one side with a number of books. Jennie approached, snagging Benjamin as he stumbled on the single stair. “Hello Mr. Crowder, I’m Mrs. Jane Clooney. My children are Anna and Jeb and Rosie and Ben, here.”

“Hello Mrs. Clooney, ladies,” he nodded to her and the other women. “Benjamin.” When he talked it was just like her, not like the folk in town. He had stern eyes and fixed them on Benjamin for a moment. “Get on in, Mr. Clooney, while I speak with the women.” 

Benjamin check with Jennie, so she give him a gentle shove. “Go’wn child.” 

He went inside carefully then vanished in his milling peers. Mr. Crowder watched him then pulled the door as he stepped outside, a half drawn barrier to the weather.

“Do you ladies need anything more from myself?”

Jennie squared her shoulders. “I know they're not paying you much, and that you’ve waived that fee. That schooling fee.” Mr. Crowder just watched her. He didn’t even blink, as if two dollars a head was something he never lost sleep over. “And that there’s talk of you feeding the children.”

“That’s true.” He crossed his arms. The marks on his fingers were stark on skin whitened from the cold. 

“Which is – that’s just true Christian charity, but I don’t want you to think…” It was hard to explain. Jennie came from Ulster stock, lived under that Calvinist ideal of eking out something day in and day out. It wasn’t fatalism to be aware of the shortcomings of this earthly life. There was just as much grace in suffering as pain. Jennie didn't want to talk of wealth or worldly goods - things she only had a passing familiarity with. She held tighter to the handle, the wood so cold it was like stone, sucking away the warmth of her hand. 

“I’ve had a fair amount to training out East,” Mr. Crawford said quietly, “to include the mental hygiene of children, and it has been my opinion that having them eat together fosters a brotherly feeling which will aid in their studies. As far as the fee,” Mr. Crowder shrugged. “You are taxed well enough for the county to be paying me a sum and furnished me with housing. This isn’t the West where you all need to make up for my time with your hard earned wages.” 

“None the less,” Jennie briskly handed over the coal bucket, “I appreciate all this.”

Mr. Crowder took it. Surprise flicked across his face. Jennie wasn't sure if it was her forwardness or the weight. “You’re welcome.” He smiled kinda sideways, just showing the edges of his teeth. It had him looking less distant. 

She rubbed her hand on her skirt. Her fingers were so stiff they caught rough on the cloth. “Good.” Jennie nodded then dismounted the step. “Good. Just be sure that you’re finished teaching them by April, for the seeding.”

“I will,” Mr. Crowder said, then looked them all over in a group. “They’ll be done at four today. Morning, ladies.”

With that dismissal he slipped inside and hauled the door shut.

* * *

  _Now_

Tim craned his head back, sussing the ceiling. It was a pretty normal popcorn texture and some fancy off-white. Rachel was taking inventory in the kitchen accounting all the fancy French pans and imported cheeses or whatever rich people eat.

"You think they need more Jesus?" Nelson was looked at the wall right by the front door, bristling with crosses. There was every kind, Tim noticed, jeweled and polished wood and fancy curled metal. He had seen a wall like it when he was chasing a deacon's daughter back when he was in high school. He was invited to Sunday dinner - forced to listen to Mr. Cox drone while Beth Marie would look at him over the potatoes. Not subtle looks either, aggressive burning looks that would fire up his brain at night and sent him to the recruiting station with a broken heart - that and his daddy's belt for encouragement. 

"Sure they don't think so," Tim walked the length of the den. One wall was a line of windows looking over a manicured backyard. There was a set of couches facing a wooden television set with shelves crammed with VHS and DVDs and some BluRays, a basket on the low set full of remotes, half with dead batteries that leaked out corrosion like a white fungus. He kept pressing them until at stereo turned on. Rachel cleared her throat. The open plan let Tim see right into the kitchen, almost to the garage. The noise was coming from everywhere. "It's surround sound." He protested over the noise. 

"I don't need  _Lord, Hold My Hand_ ," she replied. Tim turned the music off.

"What, now or ever?" Nelson asked from wherever he was lurking. Rachel ignored him. 

"I've got a few things I'm pretty sure are illegal - you still got a link to CBP?"

Tim shrugged. "I do have friends in high places, Rachel. What kind of illegal?" He threw the remote on the couch.

"Well," Rachel sighed, and laid out a few shrink-wrapped packages on the high counter. "I'm seeing some sausages I can't read, some odd vegetables, and a few traces of cocaine. What do you think?"

"I think DEA is a pain and we can take care of it ourselves." Tim pulled on some gloves. "God helps those who help themselves.” Nelson knocked something over in the ground floor bedroom.

“I’m fine!” He shouted. “One of the dowels broke in the closet!”

“Make a list,” Rachel instructed. “I want everything itemized. I want to know how much of the collection plate ended up in there and everywhere else.”

Tim picked through the meat. “I’m not seeing any of Columbia’s finest.”

“Flip them.” Rachel was crouched in front of a wine cooler taking photos.

Tim did and was impressed with the thin seam on some of the links leaking power. “Not too stupid.”

“Just stupid enough,” Rachel responded, gave him a little grin. “There’s some good years here.”

“Which means they’re older then Art?” Tim stacked the packages, leaned on an elbow. The counter top was a yellowish granite and so shiny he could see the lights reflected in it. Hell, he could pretty much see his own face. There was a double oven, an electric range, an upright fringe with a freezer drawer.  The pantry was full – there was a second fridge in the laundry room and a deep freeze in the grange. Tim pulled out his copy of the floor-plan, gone soft and floppy at the edges.  

“That would make it vinegar.” As she spoke Rachel carefully put away all the pot and pans she had spread over the kitchen island. She had a spreadsheet over a hundred pages thick and was checking each item off by hand.

“Hmm.” Tim checked the layout of the second floor, then the third, looked up at the ceiling again. “How many people lived here?”

“The pastor, his wife, three daughters and their husbands, seven grandchildren between them, one son and his wife…”

“Son didn’t have kids?”

“They just got married.” But Rachel shrugged. “There was a room set aside for the wife’s parents but I’m not sure it was used too much.”

Tim shot her a look.

“They were from Jtown.” She raised an eyebrow.

“Right.” Tim fiddled with the staple. “Want to go exploring? I’ve always wanted to find a sex dungeon.”

“I would have thought that horse woman would be kinky enough for you.”

“Nah, I’ve seen that before. This is new.”

“Seizing assets?”

“From a church.” Tim replied. “I know they don’t have as much as some people, but we did get a small jet.”

“You’re not thinking we’ll get that, do you?” Tim followed her up the sweeping stairs to the second floor. “It’s going to New York or Dallas or somewhere on the West Coast.”

“What if we need to get to Chicago?”

With a hand on the banister, Rachel twisted around, “Did you forget we’ve got an office up there?”

Tim paused. “No, but if the Dixie Mafia starts getting twitchy…”

“We nurtured them when we held Duffy,” she didn’t clarify why. “They’re still bleeding funds from the Oxy runs out of Tallahassee. They are still in debt to all kinds of assholes and we get to sweep them up every few months which make out our numbers out to be some of the best in the country.”

Tim groaned.

He ended up sitting at the bottom of a walk-in closet checking off pairs of shoes. Rachel was doing the same across from him, half-hardheartedly lining them up. One pair of sneakers were gold and left glitter all over her papers and lap. She rubbed her hand on the pale carpet. The cedar paneling made him sneeze a few times.

“They don’t have pets.” Tim commented.

“A few horses out in the bluegrass.” Rachel retorted.

“Those aren’t really pets.” Tim countered. “A pet is a dog or a cat or something.”

“A fish?” She checked a pair of sliver coated Oxfords with red soles.

“Sure, a fish. A pet has to be something you can keep inside,” Tim waved a heel for emphasis. Downstairs Nelson had the sound system turned back on.

“You have any growing up?” Rachel flipped a page in her binder.

“Nah, I watched a lot of TV though.” Tim paused to ponder a pair of boat shoes. “Did they have any boats?”

“No.”

Tim chucked them to the far end of the closet. “Typical.” He scanned the line of outerwear. “You cold?”

“Not really.” Rachel knelt up to pull down the line of cowboy boots. Some was as spangled as the crosses downstairs. Tim snagged a few, then tossed down a couple of fur coats. Rachel stroked one absently. “Fox?”

Tim ran a hand down a sleeve. “Rabbit.” He swapped them for her. “This one is fox.”

“You ever have a coat like this?” She was kidding but Tim half shrugged.

“I’ve shot some rabbets, few coyote, rats, you know. Shot a turtle once.”

Rachel pulled on the fur. “Was the turtle dangerous?”

“My dad wanted me to shoot it.” Tim checked a few pairs in silence. _Some Kind of Wonderful_ was playing but muffled by the distance and the large still rooms.

“Did you?”

Tim didn’t look up. “He wanted me to.”

“Right.” Rachel stretched. The fur was a sleek black, an expensive careful dye. It made her cheaper poly-blend suit look a little more luxurious. “Let’s look for that sex dungeon of yours,” she offered.

“Oh, it’s not mine,” Tim let himself snap back into cocky, “I don’t need those trappings.”

Rachel tossed him the rabbit coat. “Get dressed.”

He tugged it on. It was heavy, trapping the heat across his back and chest. There was still a slight gamy smell under the layer of perfume. “We can go to the media room.” Tim consulted the map. “Or the recreation room.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Recreation room has a bar and pool table.” Tim snapped off the closet light. They crossed the full bathroom together. In the bedroom the curtains were pulled back giving it clean, patient look. There was a small cross-stitch over the headboard - _For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God_. It was picked out in blue and surround by ivy. Rachel caught him looking, then turned away.

“A stocked bar and pool table,” Rachel said. “Hallelujah.”

* * *

_Then_

The typewriter was weighty. Raylan felt it slipping but managed to drop it on the desk. The men Thomason had helping him, Deputy Sheriff Jake Moss and Sheriff John Colson, were stacking several chairs on a desk flush with the wall. The commotion of moving all the seized goods meant they had an audience all the way from the firm to the front of the bank. Mrs. Paul Thomason refused to have the goods stored in her apartment.

“There’s just not enough room,” she protested while wringing her hands. She had been educated out East and kept some of that stern expression when she spoke. Her stance had been quite firm, which Raylan watched with interest. Thomason had clattered down to the bank and begged a room off them. Raylan figured they must have given it up easy, without to much fuss, considering this was all their goods anyway. The Sherriff and his Deputy were good workers. They didn’t talk much; it was too loud anyway, with the heavy moving.

Raylan prodded the typewriter, but he didn’t know the first thing about how it worked. Not that he was assuming he did it any harm. It was large enough to survive a fall, it was built like a block anyway. According to the list Thomason had it been worth a fair amount too – hell of an expensive piece for a legal firm.

There was a thick quiet when Thomason collapsed at the table. Raylan propped a hip one on the desks.

“You thinking of going up?”

“She’s going to kill me,” Thomason groaned. Outside snow was drifting loosely. The sky was deep grey. A firm breeze forced people to stoop as they hurried down the street. LePenn was still gone wherever he had so pleased. Not that he could go too far with just about everything of value locked up.

Raylan fiddled with his hat. “You want a drink?” He offered.

“I don’t drink this early.” Thomason looked up at Raylan from the cradle of his arms. “But let’s go up. I might just get to see my Lord on this fine day.”

Raylan chuckled but followed him outside. It was freezing, made him hunch up in his coat. It was low visibility so he wasn’t leaving right then. The horse would throw a fit. They struggled up the narrow flight to find Mrs Thomason setting out lunch. “Have a seat.” She pointedly put Raylan with his back to the fire. “My sister, Nellie, is going to be coming in a few minutes. She’s very excited to meet you, Marshal.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Raylan shifted uncomfortably, “but I was told yourself and your sister would be coming for dinner. I didn’t want to impose, so I intended to return to my room, or even have a drink…”

Mrs. Thomason waved a hand. “Nonsense. I know you’ve had an exciting morning, but I told Paul you needed to stock up, considering where you live.” The fire felt good and there was a full stew on the trivet in the middle of the table. He hadn’t had a proper bowl since October.

“Provisions?” Thomason wouldn’t meet Raylan’s eye. Coward. “Anything I need I can get in Harlan, and it ain’t half bad.” He might have been coming across a little self-justifying, but it was different him saying how shit Harlan was and others saying it.

“Your shirt is ragged for a man of your representation,” she was rude too. Raylan raised his eyebrows.

“That so?”

“I don’t know what cut you might have picked up in the desert, but Kentucky is marching with progress – you are the face of the federal government in these parts Marshal Givens. I don’t know what rope you have around your neck,” Thomason’s eyes flicked to Raylan’s tie as he wife kept talking, “but it’s just not decent.”

Thomason gripped this wife’s hand. Raylan took a sip of the tea. It was hot enough and kicked some warmth into his belly and chest.

“Nellie’ll fix you up,” Thomason said. “And you do look a state, Raylan. Least new trousers won’t hurt.”

“A’right.” Raylan grunted. He could see steam coming off the stew. That fact his bowl was empty didn’t bother him as much with the tea in hand. He relaxed in his chair. “I have an acquaintance who used to make comments about my opinions on clothing and the like.” He took another sip. “Said I dress like a lawman.”

“No harm in that,” Mrs. Thomason replied. “You just need to look like you get paid for those services.”

“Hmm,” Raylan glanced out the window. Goddamn this place. The glass was fogged over, just hot enough to keep the snow running in forked lines down the pane. It made everything beyond it distant and blurred, softened like a memory. There was a clatter from the front door, the rough fumbling of the wood forced from the frame. A steady tread come up the stairs at arrested Mrs. Thomason’s attention. The figure in the doorway was swaddled in layers of heavy glossy fabric. The skirt was wide as the frame itself. Raylan wasn’t sure if he was being impressed the right way. The getup sure looked uncomfortable.

Nellie was blond, with clear blue eyes and a fixed attentiveness. She was old enough for it to feel flattering and Raylan found himself complimented in kind. She was struck by her current obsession, in her words the greatest living poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, which meant she was trying to convince Raylan of his importance.

“He is the voice of new American literature. He imbues the spriit of truth and beauty into each work – even his most melancholy words ring with the clear peal of intimate grandeur.” When she spoke she ran her tongue along her bottom lip.

“Intimate grandeur.” Raylan repeated. He wouldn’t have known if he ever read Longfellow’s stuff. Might have in high school. He had no idea.

Nellie took a sip of tea then leaned closer, intimate herself. “Even at the lowest, gloomy points of expression there is optimism, Marshal Givens, I promise you.”

“Why don’t you recite something for our guest,” her sister encouraged. Thomason shot Raylan a look over his own cup, grinning mostly to himself.

“Oh,” Nellie patted her hair which was firmly pinned into coils. Raylan was beginning to see the trap closing in. She was dressed in a rich green and an awful lot of fancy bits, which he was realizing was a little nicer then anyone else was festooned with. “Oh, alright then. What would you like to hear?”

“I confess I’m not too familiar with his work,” Raylan came off as apologetic as he could. Nellie gasped in shock, but it lacked any real surprise. The poor acting made the conversation tedious. Raylan tried not to sigh, “Why don’t you tell me your favorite?” It was easer to buy a girl a drink at a bar, pass a few lines of conversation, then an offer of his place or hers. This was more like pulling teeth.

Nellie took this with a giggle. Raylan focused on her eyes, where the dress clung. She was nice.

“They are quite long,” she was saying, “and we do have some things to attended to, sister dear, so just the start.” She cleared her throat theatrically: “Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.” The breath she took was shuttering but honest. Her hand fluttered up to the bottom of her throat, but it was an absent gesture. This really did something for her. “Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day.” She paused there blinking hard. “I can do the entire work after dinner, if you would be kind enough to join us.”

Raylan tapped a finger on the table but said, “Of course.” It still didn’t do anything for him, the words and all the forced exclamations but he could be appreciative of the effort. When he raised his cup he was surprised to find it empty. Instead of offering to refill it Mrs. Thomason looked at the clock then her sister. Nellie nodded then presented her judgement to Raylan, “The weather seems to be easing, would you be so kind as to chaperone me this afternoon?”

“Carry your bags?” He asked. Thomason rolled his eyes. Raylan stood. “I’d be honored, Miss Thomason.” Jesus Christ, it was like living in a play – not that he had even seen one beyond the overwrought efforts at Evarts High School. He tugged his coat on from the back of his chair. It had finally fully dried. His hat by the door was still damp on the crown. He helped Nellie into her coat keeping his fingers clear of hers then stepped back a bit. She affixed her own hat with a set of wicked, long hatpins.

Then she held out her arm. He tucked it firmly and her fingers wrapped tight around his wrist. Nellie was looking him right in the eyes. “Shall we?”

Raylan tugged down his brim and let her down the stairs. Hadn’t even gotten lunch, after all that nonsense.

* * * * * * * * * * *

He was surprised by the number of shops – but each catered to a very specific concept: one of hats, one for dresses, one for blouses and skirt pieces. Nellie took her time over every item. She would ask Raylan his opinion of length or color; he didn’t have any, never developed one beyond what had made his wife or lovers look good. It also kept him from any responsibility in tagging along to such events like this here one.

“The green isn’t bad,” he was looking over a complex contraption. A few of the women by the door looked scandalized so he cut his eyes away. “Should I even be here?” One the items on display were, no doubt, a set of undergarments.

Nellie didn’t look up from where she was flipping through a catalog. “Of course. Come with me to the counter, I have a collection.”

He ruefully followed her with his hands in his pockets. She talked to the woman behind the flat wood top, signed a slip and waited as she brung out a small flat box tied with ribbon. Nellie set in it in Raylan’s arms. It reminded him of going out with Winona and following with bags from Macy’s and J C Penny cutting into the crooks of his elbows. Nellie then swept out the door and Raylan fell in just behind. The next place wasn’t a woman’s store and he could see just how he’d been conned. The big sign overhead spelled out Craddock in big yellow letters.

The floor and walls were blonde wood which was bight in the sunlight. Some mud dried in clumps on the rug in front of the door. Nellie ran a hand along a set of ready-wear shirts then picked up a collar. “You’re wearing the same set you wore yesterday, aren’t you Marshal?”

Raylan grunted then looked at the sign: a triple set of New York Mills shortsleeves for two fifty. He pulled out three and piled them into Nellie’s arms. “This enough?”

She snorted, delicately. “You’ll need more then this dear – you’re not a farm operator so I expect you can get a new set of suits.” She stacked a number of collars and cuffs into her free hand. They hung across her palm like paper birds. “Do you have cuff links?” Then she shook her head, “I can see you don’t.” Raylan grunted. Nellie picked up a set.

“The coat is alright,” she allowed. Raylan rolled his eyes and looked across the floor. The place was empty. The whole space was quiet enough that the wind was just about hissing along the gap below the door.

There was a few boxes stacked by the receipt book which was laying open. He wandered over to take a look. As he did a man came out the back with a stack of drawers. He was wearing something fancy, his cuff links set with gems.

Nellie laid a hand on Raylan’s arm. “We’ll have eight of those, sir, packed for travel. These as well,” and she dumped the things in her arms on the desk, “and what is your recommendation for two daily suits?”

“We have better value if you’re getting odd jackets then full suits,” the man said. “They are made-to-measure but shipments aren’t too good here in the winter.”

Nellie sighed. “That’s fine, I suppose. You’re leaving soon Marshal?”

“Soon as possible,” Raylan agreed. “You Craddock?” he asked the man.

“Francis M. Craddock,” and they shook.

“I’m on a budget.” Raylan said. “I just need a new jacket and a coupl’a shirts. Nothing extravagant.”

Craddock looked at his shoulders then his waist. Raylan thought he was going to comment on the pistols, but instead he said, “I don’t mean to be indecent in front of this lady, but are you wearing suspenders?”

“No.” Raylan said shortly. This, after everything, got Nellie to look at him sideways.

“Really?” She sounded more disguised then intrigued.

Raylan crossed his arms. He didn’t like judgment, especially from a woman who looked like she shoved a small child up the back of her skirt. “I travel pretty often. Marshal Service puts a’lotta stress on clothing and the like.”

“I’m sure it does,” Craddock pulled a ribbon ruler from around his neck.  “I can get you a pair and maybe…” he set a small leather case on the counter, “a toilet set free of charge.” He grinned brightly. Raylan could see this whole circus making his pocket pretty light.

“I don’t want to spend more then thirty dollars and fifteen cents on this enterprise.”

Nellie was examining the jackets. “That’s quite specific.”

“I don’t want to spend more then I did on my pistols.”

Craddock laughed quietly. “That’s a fair standard. Trust me, the shirts are some of the best – New York made so they’ll last you a good ten years. Why, my brother has one he was issued by the Army and he still wears it on occasion.”

Raylan just let the man run the ribbon along his arms and legs, standing spread legged with a sigh. Nellie was laying out several jackets and trousers in dark colors. It seemed like an awful lot to wear at once. Craddock was watching the process as well.

“If it’s all the same, ma’am, I’ll take over.” Craddock picked a few things then led Raylan firmly by the elbow around the counter. “Let me check with the pins. Won’t take but a moment.”

Nellie nodded then let them go. They went into a cramped office. The desk was covered in neat stacks of paper, a long spike holding receipt copies. On one wall was a poster for made-to-measure cuts.

Craddok had long fingers and a hell of a grip. “No much into fashion?” he asked as he released Raylan.

“Not really,” Raylan stood stiffly. He was getting irritable. “I presently have more pressing issues on my mind.”

“I can tell,” Carddock tossed him the trousers and shirt. Raylan kicked off his boots, threw his belt over the chair. He carefully set his badge and billfold on the edge of the desk. Then Raylan tugged the new clothes on. It made him angrier how much warmer he felt with the thicker material, the cloth feeling clean on his body. His old things looked beyond ragged where they lay on the floor. “You don’t have much in the way of whiskers. Hell, I don’t think I’ve seen a man cleanshaven like that since I was a boy.”

“I’m supposing that man was a boy as well,” Raylan ground his teeth and glared at the floor.

“Now, cuffs and collar,” Craddock handed them over. Added, “Well, yes,” about the whiskers; then, “the vest.”

Raylan struggled into the suspenders first. The cuff on the right wrist kept slipping from his fingers as he tried to set if cufflink. The vest was tugged on then the jacket. Finally, Craddock looked over. “Much better. I might take the trousers up a bit, since you wear boots it’ll need a higher hem.” After he saw Raylan’s face, he added, “That’s free for you Marshal. Just toss them over.”

“You just like insulting me to my fucking face, don’t you?” Raylan sighed then shucked the pants and waited awkwardly with his arms crossed. While he sewed Craddock nodded to the desk, saying, “Grab your things.” Raylan pinned the badge on and slipped the billfold in his vest pocket. Then he fished his watch out of his old suit jacket and tucked it in the vest as well. The suspenders hung free over his bare legs. Goddamn he felt like an idiot. The tie felt stupidly wide, like Arlo used to keep in with his old suit. Raylan even had to tie up his socks. He felt distinctly unlike himself. Like he was playing a character and didn’t have the lines.

Craddock give him the trousers back. “About fucking time,” Raylan bit out, “my balls were about to retract into my damn body.”

“Now, that would be a trick,” Craddock commented. “Marshal.”

Raylan pulled them back on and buttoned in the suspenders. The whole thing was shades of grey and made his coat pull tight across his shoulders. “Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens.”

“You’re pretty far from Frankfort County.” Craddock leaned on the desk. He had sharp dark eyes. Raylan bet those cuffs were paste-stones.

“I’m also the town marshal for Mount Pleasant.”

“Out in Harlan?”

“Out in Harlan,” Raylan confirmed.

“You know the Herring brothers?”

Raylan collected his clothing from the floor. “Can’t say I do.”

“What about that Sheriff who got elected in few years back. Hagens?”

“Professionally.” Raylan tucked the bundle under his arm. Despite the washing he gave it the other day it smelled rank.

“I see.” Craddock handed Raylan back his hat. “I’ll do the tabulations for you now.”

Raylan had no choice but to follow Craddock back to the floor.

Nellie was paging though another catalog. When she looked up and caught sight of them, she beamed. “You look like a whole new man, Marshal.”

“Feel like it.” Raylan pulled at his tie. The other set Nellie had selected was in browns. Nothing that would show as stain, he supposed.

“These are also good enough for church,” she observed. Raylan shrugged.

“Suppose so.”

Craddock was hunched over his book. “I’ll give you it all for twenty five even.”

Raylan looked at him narrowly. “Sure?”

“Sure, Deputy US Marshal Givens.” As Raylan counted out the bills Craddock added, “You realize the closest US Marshal we had was out of Tennessee?”

“That so?”

“It is,” Nellie confirmed, oblivious to the tension across the counter, or the position her brother-in-law occupied. Then she yanked the clothes out of Raylan’s arms. “Can you see this gets disposed of?” Raylan pulled his tie free while Craddock swept the rest away.

“Certainly, ma’am.” He folded the rest flat then rolled it in thick paper. “Should fit in a saddle bag.”

“Thank you.” Raylan set the roll on top of Nellie’s boxes and carefully picked the whole tower up. He was paranoid about a sock sliding down to his ankle. Nellie slipped her hand in his elbow as he tucked his receipt away. “Thank you,” he repeated.

“You’re welcome,” Craddock watched them all the way out the door. Raylan could feel his eyes on the back of his neck like an itch. It was so warm outside that he decided then and there that he was leaving the next day. Nothing was worth this difficult existence.

* * *

_Now_

Reardon knew his position was precarious. The oversight committee was coming after him like a pack of coondogs, ready to tree him for the past four decades. David was playing paddy-finger with the agents in Treasury who were really a gaggle of federal bumblefucks and Mullen was about ready to get off the Service gravy train. Reardon wasn't getting off - he was going to die in this fucking judgeship. 

Which means that the three of them were not having a late afternoon drink on a Tuesday evenly sat around his tasteful office coffee table. They were not sipping whisky cut with soda ignoring the approaching new year. Can't play hooky if you never leave the office. Then it's just a meeting - too bad the taxpayers weren't cheap on expense funds for local systems. The senators could jetset for vacations and medical care and he was stuck with the RiteAid and bottles of NyQuil. 

"What do they have on you?" Vasquez finally asked. There was no windows so the best they had was a cheap motel-type painting of some bluegrass pasture and warmblood hunters in shades of brown. He couldn't remember the last time he'd even watched the Derby, let alone drove out and seen the spectacle live. 

"Nothing," Reardon muttered back. District Court had been his life - every four years doing the circuit so he could keep this chair and the view. He didn't pretend that Vasquez had sympathies - they were professional friendlies but he was the AG's dog, not Reardon's own. Hell, he was only sipping with Mullen because he had liked the man's reputation out of Georgia. Art could be a bit of a holy roller which soured the mood Reardon was trying to cultivate. 

Art was going at it now. "Really?" He leaned back until his chair groaned, crossed his arms. "I heard around the water cooler you over stepped on that Frank case." The lamps were on full light and overhead the fan turned lazy. A spiderweb on the plastic tree by the door twitched. 

"Frank case?" Vasquez finished off the bottom of his glass and just re-filled with seltzer. He must still be planning on driving home. 

"The State v. Frank," Mullen shrugged, off-handed and calculating, "which was a domestic, far as I remember..."

"It was commercial sexual activity," Reardon cut him off, "not domestic." He couldn't help but adding, "Unless she did some cleaning after." The grin he slapped on felt greasy. Jesus, when had he turned oily? 

Vasquez could be counted on to lord judgement - he sighed heavily. Art just waited.

"What did you _do_?" Like it mattered at this point.

"Denied parole." Reardon topped up his low drink with whiskey. "All above board."

Art grinned without really smiling. "Not true, Judge. Frank qualified for postincarceration supervision; you denied prematurely."

"Wasn't premature, couldn't be premature - I never allow early release, supervision or otherwise." Reardon glared at the wall. 

"They were expecting that." Vasquez was looking into his drink. "It was a sting, you had to have known - what, did you not read something?"

"Neglected to read any of it." Art chuckled. "You sent of a boilerplate rejection."

"That's what I'm elected for," Reardon shot back. "We share the building, Art, but we don't run the same grounds. I'm not appeals and I'm not the Supreme Court so fuck that. You want a soft touch go to Lambert. It wasn't appeal; it was a reduction request hidden in a hornet's nest. There are over one hundred other assholes doing the same thing I do in this state alone - do you see anyone getting the reaming I am?"

"I'm sure the judges at appeals wouldn't mind you taking off early." Vasquez pointed out.

"It takes two of them to do my job." Reardon knew he was drinking too fast. Would have to get a cab home at this rate, wouldn't be any good to see the girls either. He was getting old - he was old, and fat. God damn it.

Art pulled up the other pain in his ass. "What about Lawless?"

"What about her?" Reardon had the tapes and transcripts and about fifteen different medical opinions. Hell, Georgetown wanted to send out one of their own for a look-see. Vasquez even perked up. 

Art tipped his glass all casual. "They going for felony probable cause hearing or involuntary mental commitment?"

Reardon pushed his own glass away. "You're not much of a fisherman, are you Art?"

Art look the least bit guilty. "I get it packaged at the store - convenience. So?"

"You want me to make this convent for you, Art? Fuck that. You drink my hooch, you take my chair- my desk chair - and you want an early screening of the fucking shit show that is my next two months? I'm not ringing the new year on champagne, I'll tell you that. If this is done by February you owe be a drink you cannot afford Mullen." Reardon threw a hand back at the desk. It was spotless but the intent was spread over. "It's going to be involuntary mental commitment. We're looking a twenty years - defense is fine with that. They're not even asking for outpatient; she's that fucking bugged. I don't know if she's crazy though," Reardon rubbed a hand on his forehead. 

"She has to be crazy," Vasquez pointed out. "She's going for  _involuntary_ mental commitment. Unless you think she's trying to shake charges and federal pen?"

Art seemed interested. "Wouldn't be the first time."

"No," Reardon sighed. "She'll get it. Thought Brooks talked to you?"

Art bit his lip, shook his head. "Mostly about transport." It was a lie, Reardon knew Lawless had dropped Givens' name but fuck that - didn't matter to him at all. 

"Lawless is crazy as a shithouse rat. Now, the FBI and the shrinks are all over the how and why; that's not what I'm for. My job is if she is crazy what she gets for being an asshole on top of that."

Vasquez was working the seltzer. "What have the shrinks come back with?"

"The usual: exit counselling and intervention. Her basic understanding of the world is skewed."

"We talking the Branch Davidians? Waco?" Art shifted slightly.

"Nah," Reardon slumped down. "She's like... it's like she was Amish or something, but in a shed. She has no _context_ for modern life. Testing shows she's barely got a first grade education, seven teeth rotted out of her head, malnourished, bowlegged, passed worms the first week in detention. Nerve damage - possibly from tetanus. She's a walking biohazard and heath risk."

"None of that accounts for diminished responsibility," Vasquez looked uncomfortable. "She can have these and be of sound mind."

"She's not of sound mind." Art pointed out. "Not if the defense and prosecution are so cozy on mental commitment; what's the pound of flesh?"

"Delusions. She has the unshakable conviction we are in the year of our Lord 1881." 

Art looked thoughtful. "Which is a delusion."

"Undoubtedly, Art." Reardon topped up his glass then Art's, for commiseration. No good to drink alone.

Vasquez looked thunderstruck. "What is she's not?"

Art looked from Reardon to him. "What are you saying?"

"She... she said 1881, right?" He swallowed hard. "Then she mentioned Givens by name."

"Brooks asked about that," Art refuted, "which doesn't mean anything."

"It does," Vasquez protested, "when Givens' family moved to the region in 1894."

"What?" Art froze. "Where did you get that?"

"Gutterson. We ran up the family trees - his mom's people were there forever, but the last name Givens wasn't on the census before 1900; now the 1890 was lost in a fire but they weren't in the 1880 or 1870 - plenty in West Virginia but nothing before the coal business."

"You're sure?" Art asked.

"Rock solid. Givens might have been all over the receipts - you showed me - but he was never counted by the federal government outside of the Marshal's Service."

Reardon shook his head. "That's a fucking big jump. You can't just pull this time travel shit out your ass. And you cannot create a defense out of it either - Jesus, man, consider what your suggesting; that Givens is swapped from here and replaced with a woman and four children." Fucking pull the other leg. The level in the bottle was dropping fast but he had no interest in standing or looking desperate.

"Newton's Third Law: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction." Vasquez sounded like a fucking geek.

Art crossed his arms. "Which means what exactly?"

"There was the cattle as well." Vasquez stood up. "What if this is dilation?"

Reardon snapped, "Sit the fuck down. You're working yourself up with this bullshit, Vasquez. And you're walking a thin fucking line."

"Will you listen to me?" Vasquez hissed back. "Give me two minutes."

"You have one," Art replied. 

"For an equal and opposite reaction. So, we have Raylan swapped back to then and those folks moved here. If the power is more to go back then the value is less to move forward. It's harder, requires more energy - there you get five people and a bunch of cows for one person."

"And where did you get your degree in sci-fi horseshit? Starfleet?" Reardon emptied his glass and neglected another pour for the moment. 

"I had one minute," Vasquez groaned. "I'm just saying it is a possibility; there wasn't even good inter-state communication until the 1980s, you think Givens wouldn't know how to slip something like the census?"

Art stood as well. "I'm going home. This was illuminating, gentlemen, but I have work in the morning. Besides," he added to Vasquez, "you told me to drop this a month ago, and I did. Do me the same courtesy."

He shook Reardon's hand. "Good luck with the Lawless case, Mike. I'll show myself out."


	6. Chapter 6

_Went down to the river Jordan,_

_where John baptised three_

_Well I walked to the devil in hell_

_sayin John ain't baptise me_

_I say;_

_Roll, Jordan, roll_

_Roll, Jordan, roll_

_My soul arise in heaven, Lord_

_for the year when Jordan roll_

-“Roll, Jordan, Roll” by Wallace Willis a Choctaw freedman in the Indian Territory before 1860, a famous coded song thought to reference the Underground Railroad

* * *

  _Then_

The church had been cold for a while now. Where it had survived was the frame only all those crumbling black charred struts. The white panels of the walls had peeled away in the heat and the steeple, and with it the cross, had collapsed inward. It had gone up like a wick. The building was ringed in slick mud, the only hint of the sudden warmth of the week - unseasonable and weeping. Someone had tried to set the husk alight again last night. A distraction he had fallen for like a fool.

“They killed Lewis Wilson,” the man next to Raylan commented. He was talking quiet, as not to break the stillness. “House still warm.” When they breathed out it was cloudy and chilled their faces. “You seen what you need?”

“I did.” Raylan followed him away from the sacrilege. They were far from Harlan, just outside of Danville in one of the flat stretches. All around in the near distance was the jagged edges of the mountain range. Raylan was hunched into his new clothes, beaten by weeks on the road. They were staring down the barrel of the new year – 1877. Hallelujah. “They burn down the African Baptist Church for any particular reason?”

The man had drooping, yellowed eyes. One of his hands had been viciously mangled in the past – he was short three and a half fingers on the right. “Marshal, they come and go as they like. You know this - you’re not a stupid man.”

Raylan just nodded. His own horse had been crudely hung the night he arrived; they must have killed Wilson for offering Raylan use of his own.

They walked out to the farm. Samson had a long, loping gait that looked effortless. Raylan could smell the burning as they approached. There was the heavy stink of caught wood and flesh. It was early enough that there was still heat off the ashes. The cooling embers threw a thin curtain of heat. Well past that was the big house but Raylan took a long look at Mr. Wilson’s home and where his body lay, covered in a white sheet. It traced the edges of the profile of his body in weak shadows. Just into the field was his own horse – the most expensive thing to his person, throat cut then gunshot – dead long enough to have gone cold. Beyond that was the mountains, snagging the dark pre-dawn.

Mrs. Mason Brown was the only one awake in the home. She had opened the door herself. All the fireplaces were dark and rooms draughty; the air licked after them pulling away the warmth they carried. 

She was an old mid-thirty, wain in the pre-dawn light. Next to her was a collection of children's toys washed pastel in the weak hour. Her writs would have been svelte if her bones were not so knobby. Even her wedding ring hung loose.

“Your husband is in Louisville?” Raylan let Samson cover his back and shadow the door.

“Yes.” She was tense on the edge of her seat, fingers plucking at the skin around her nails. Everything about her trembled. Raylan didn’t feel moved to comfort her. He looked out the thick back windows which had clear line of sight across the greens into the rubble of Wilson’s home. The stone chimney had splinted into gravel.

Onwards and beyond were the others – a line of shacks, huddled in the grey morning, wrapped in fog like batting.

“You heard anything?”

She nodded again but didn’t speak. Her ring trembled against her knuckle. 

“What time?” He knew. He knew everything. She just needed to confirm.

Samson spoke up. “About midnight – when they rake the coals.”

Raylan checked his watch. They were perched on four thirty. He could feel every inch of his age. “Anyone see who it was?”

Mrs. Brown didn’t look him in the eye.

“Mrs. Brown,” he was harsh. She fixed her eyes just past his right ear. “Mrs. Brown, the man in your employ was murdered last night by seventeen men; his home was molested, himself shot, and they burned it down around him. He was still alive, Mrs. Brown, and only his legs had caught.” He stepped closer, boots sharp in the quiet. “I took his dying statement. He was forthcoming. I see I was mistaken that you would be such, or even capable of honor, at any hour of the day.”

That got her to finally see him.

“How dare you,” her lips thinned in fury, “accuse me with such ill treatment?” She might have been considered pretty but all Raylan could see was the cracked flesh over Wilson’s knees, split and exposing the twitching meat of his body. He had been able to see them flinch even after Wilson passed out from the pain. It had taken him whole minutes to die.

“I don’t accuse you of shit. You are a coward,” Raylan pulled out a ripped sheet where he had scrawled the names had Wilson chocked out. Wilson had known the men by their voices. “I have almost all them here, and you must know them – I’ll read them if you like…”

Mrs. Brown flinched away. “No, sir. I know of none of them.”

“Not even the boy?” Raylan folded away the paper, watched her face twist harshly. He could wait. He could watch her squirm in the late December cold and wait.

“What boy?” She finally asked.

“The old boy.” Samson spoke. He had been there for it this morning. “Eighteen, he said he was, and gave up them all, pretty much.”

“Sang like a bird,” Raylan bit out. “Sang us a fairly long tune, Mrs. Brown, and he tried to use your good name as a shield.”

He knew then moment she understood who they snared. Mrs. Brown gathered up her skirts but had nowhere to go.

“What did he say?”

“You trying to cover your own ass?” Raylan penned her in between the bench at her back and wall to her left. “Best you really fucking reconsider with whatever skin you’re going to peddle; tell me plain and we’ll give you the same rap we offered your shitstain kin.”

Mrs. Brown was wound up like a fox. “What offer?”

“Confess and give us the names, Mrs. Brown.” Raylan said. She kept looking over to Samson. “Ah, don’t mind him. You just talk to me and we’ll be long gone.”

She staggered sideways on thin house shoes. The names she gave matched, so Raylan left her there in the lightening room, frost thin on the metal hinges of the windows and coating the latch. He dug though the saddle he had slung over the rail of the porch. Carrying it made his shoulders stoop; Raylan felt as old as the hills. He offered the cuffs to Samson.

“You want to?”

The other man shook his head. “I’ll watch the boy.”

“Alright.” Raylan let himself back in. Mrs. Brown hadn’t moved from her room – she didn’t speak when he arrested her either. Then he took a moment to compose her confession of the raid, noting the date and time in his notebook. She didn't resist any of it.

“Just keep in front of me.” He had a hand firmly on her elbow with her hands behind her back. “Would you mind if we borrowed your hitch?”

Mrs. Brown looked like she was going to comment but spat at his feet. The spittle was thick and lay on the rug like a dead thing. “A’lright,” Raylan said. “I’ll just requisition it.”

* * * * * * * * * *

The judge was roused from his bed. Roberts took Raylan’s statement in silence then filled out the arrest warrants one by one. Raylan left Mrs. Brown and the boy there. Sharing space in one cell and her with her house shoes still on. Samson was leaning on the hitch running a hand down the horse’s neck.

“We going to get them?” He asked.

“I’m short four names, so short four affidavits. Even if I had a man to put on every one of these yellow-bellied fucks we couldn’t get them all.”

Samson nodded slow. “Unless they tell us.”

Raylan tilted his head back. The sun was just high enough to light up the haze off the cold. “Unless they tell us.” There was a man coming out the door - he was deep in thought but waved when he saw them, then meandered over, hands buried in his pockets. 

"I'm with the  _Courier-Journal_ ," but he didn't give a name. "You after the reward?"

"No." Raylan crossed his arms.

"Five hundred each - could get a whole passel of horses."

"I just need the one." 

"What about you, boy?" The journalist had a half-starved look. "You could get something with that."

"I am a freeman, sir." Samson let his hands hang at his sides.

"And he's a deputy marshal," Raylan added. He was starting to loose feeling around his ring, the metal biting sharp.

The journalist laughed but stuttered awkwardly into silence. "You mean it?"

Samson showed his badge, which had been stripped from Raylan's billfold. "You have anything for us?"

The journalist shrugged, then said, "Not much."

"Come on." Raylan leaned forward all friendly-like. "You keep your ear to the ground, better to hear the train - and you asked which means you know something you ain't telling. Usually, this hour of the day I'd figure you just a drunk but see," Raylan dropped a hand on the journalist's shoulder, tightened the grip, "you just left Judge Robert's home. His private domicile. What _you_ doing, son?" 

It was still cold and in front of them the journalist shivered. Raylan could feel him trying to twist away. He let the man go before flicking an eye back to the judge's house. The street was still empty. Early morning stillness would split open in a few minutes and pour out the townsfolk. 

"Just keeping a eye, the Governor is very interested."

"In justice?" Samson raised an eyebrow. 

Raylan backed the horse up. It's teeth ground on the bit. "Get in Samson. Ignore the man, he's talking shit."

The journalist watched them turn back towards were they had come - the Brown farm and their ilk. 

* * * * * *

Raylan just knocked and the door opened. It was almost too easy, but then there were no phones; no warning system faster then he could travel long as he could ride hard. This farm was as big as the rest. Bunch of bored, affluent fucks who were fine with stringing up men and beating women. Burning churches and bloodying children. 

The man who answered was young, foppish almost. His mother hovered just behind his shoulder. She seemed fairly motherly which just showed how you couldn't tell by looking. Her son and her was kitted out in real nice silk-type garments. They was not dressed for the outdoor chill.

"You Harry?" Raylan didn't have to check the affidavit. 

Harry smiled real polite. "I'm am," he looked Raylan over, "sir." He stepped onto the porch but hadn't clocked the hitch yet, or Samson at the helm. "How can I help you?" He was acting like Raylan was looking to sell him encyclopedias. Raylan showed Harry his badge and his meaning. His buddies had rolled real quick. 

"Deputy Marshal Raylan Givens, Master Harry. You're under arrest. Come with me, please." He displayed the cuffs. 

Harry pulled back harshly. As if the door-frame or his mother could protect him. Raylan grabbed one of his wrists so tight he felt the bones under his fingers shift.

"Now, don't make this hard," he cautioned. There was an eagerness thrumming; he hadn't been in a fight in months. Hadn't split his knuckles on anything. He had been too busy keeping his head down and playing good cop. "I'm running the whole raid down so best you come quiet or I do it by your ear."

"I'd like to see you try-" Harry snarled, working himself into a lather. 

Raylan grabbed the man by the hair on top of his head and hauled him clear across the porch. His nice richboy shoes knocked off the steps, got all scuffed in the dirt. They clattered off the wood. He hardly struggled, just made loud wet pants just he was gonna start squalling. His mama was hollering in the house and some woman come out to watch. Didn’t look to be kluge intervening type. Samson kept the hitch steady while Raylan shoved Harry next to his pals. "Just stay, boy, and I won't have to beat you." He had tears all down his face and ducked his head to sniffle. 

Rayan checked the leg irons then grabbed Samson's hand to haul himself into the front seat. 

They were going right back to Judge Roberts. The whole gumshoe impression meant that they had lost key hours crisscrossing the county, trying to flush out the men. All day and only three was no good. 

"They've gone into the wood." Samson looked at where the sun was dropping. 

"Yeah," Raylan checked his badge where it was pinned then shuffled the warrants keeping the names fresh. "We'll get 'em."

* * *

  _Now_

They were around the table under the circle of the old kitchen lights. Outside was smudged from the glare of the bulbs but there was the hint of another house and and another warm backlit room with shuffling figures. Her curtains were gossamer with thin twitching shadows. The only thing that had come with the house was the living room set.

Tim hadn’t let her leave with the Manes file. She had begged Art for it in that easy way she never really did ask for anything. Not just the best in the office she was the best in the state. Hell, the best in the whole run from Ohio down to Tennessee. Rachel was due a promotion and a raise. They all knew it. Art had looked at her then the file and just asked, “Isn’t Nick on winter break?”

She had no good response- anything beside saying yes and then leaving would come across like dismissing her own nephew. Art had managed to raise three children of his own. He insisted there was a work/life balance but she had yet to see one. Maybe the balance was really Leslie’s bottomless kindness. Her mom was good - but no replacement for a partner. 

Nick was hunched over his math homework. She had her work laptop open to a bank of read emails idly moving old ones to the archive folder. It would sync every five minutes and she would watch it reload on the screen, bored.

“I don’t understand it,” he complained again.

“Let me see.” Rachel dragged her chair closer. It was a tangle of long devilish calculus. She could do this - she had a degree in science but it had been years with the hardest mental test being her figuring the tip in her head. “Look, break this into parts. Do you this section first? Do one at a time - and write it all out,” she pulled free a sheet of looseleaf. “Here.” Rachel printed out each step as it came. “See it now?”

Nick groaned but it wasn’t as pained as much as frustrated. “Yeah,” he nodded. “Yeah, I do. Thanks.”

She grinned. “I know, Nick. I was where you were at. It’s not so bad it just feels that way.”

Her laptop chimed. New email from the office. Official word was Manes got bagged, just in for processing courtesy of the response unit. There was a text from Tim not even thirty seconds later to her personal phone.

 _Mucho funo,_ he had written.

 _Was it like the sandbox?_ She tapped out.

 _I didn’t have to pee in a bottle._ He replied.

 _Carry in, carry out._ She paused then added, _See you tomorrow._

 _Night._ Then he sent a little image of a moon.

Nick was making good inroads on his issue. She snuck a look on the next few. They weren’t any more complex but she pulled out some glasses and iced tea to wait out the eventual trouble. Rachel poured herself a glass then drank half of it to kill some time. The laundry was thumping in the dryer but looking at the clock there was still fifty minutes on the cycle. Tim wouldn’t be at his place for another while. She started to close the programs on her screen. The laptop powered down with a wheezy gasping of the little fan at the bottom. When she left it on too long it would heat then start to stink like warm plastic.

Then Rachel washed everything in the sink and stacked it to drain. “Trash tomorrow,” she pressed a kiss to Nick’s head. “When does your group meeting happen tomorrow again?”

“Ten, at the library.”

“What me to drop you off? You can drive there.” She could swing by the office. Rachel knuckled at her eye. It was also Saturday which would give her time to do the grocery shopping and maybe even get on top of cleaning out the garage - which never ever got empty. Best not to think of it now.

Nick just grunted at his papers. There was extensive scrawls over the third problem. She looked out towards the front door. With the hall light off it seemed shorter then it was. A pile of shoes tangled like briers in the darkness. He would want to drive in the morning so might have to make sure he got a decent night’s rest. She picked up her cell phone and called before she overthought it. As she let the line ring out she kept sipping on her glass. Nick had his by his hand but hadn’t touched it.

Just before she was sure it was click over to the voicemail he picked up.

“Yeah?” His voice was blurred. He might have been drinking or she might have woken him up. It had been long enough if he went to bed with his shoes on.

“Hey, just wanted to see how you were doing.” She sounded tried herself.

“What time is it?” He was shuffling, talking to himself. “Jesus, ten thirty? Rachel...” He sighed ragged over the line.

“Tim,” She said right back. Please God, don't let him hang up.

“Ms. Brooks, is there anything I can help you with?” He sounded almost upright.

“What to go grocery shopping tomorrow?” It wasn’t an offer yet, so he couldn’t get pissed. “I can swing by and pick you up. Nick has a study group at the library.” Now he could get pissed. She waited.

Tim just went quiet on the other end.

“You there?” Rachel checked to make sure he hadn't hung up.

“I am.” He was talking very quiet. “Sure, fine, fuck me. What time?”

“I can be at yours around...” she thought a moment, “ten twenty. We’ll need to get Nick at noon.”

“Okay.” He swallowed so hard she could hear his throat click. "Get lunch too." Playing happy families like they hadn't done in years. 

“Great, See you then.”

“See you, Rachel.” He hung up without saying goodbye.

* * *

_ Then _

Her hair had gone grey, twisted at the base of her skull. The teacher had accepted the coffee but not the food so she hadn't a change to sup. She enjoyed the ritual of this the soft greeting. It was not quite informal, but it was about the ritual of a lengthy welcome. There was the perfume of the grounds trapped in the muggy air. Outside the road was still hard from the freeze. The trees had sloughed off the weighty dripping snow. It was becoming warm enough that the slush lost its remaining form.

She must have been a looker in her prime - he had said as much in that long-winded way he had. She had accepted the words with dignity. He had so many teeth, blocked in his face like a fence. He forwent a collar or tie instead having his shirt buttoned to the top. He wore no rings, no indication of any status.

"I am much obliged to your charity, ma'am. I haven't had a real cup in what feels like a dog's year; and your home is a vision."

"It's funny you bring up charity," the widow Helen Florin Marcu Dimitrescu still had dark eyes and a keen gaze. She settled it on Mr. Crowder then, at his good but patched coat and his road-roughed face. There were dark areas on his shoes which carried a dank smell. "I am interested it myself, Mr. Crowder. So, I have called you here to talk of your initiative." She pronounced it _in-ish-tive_. 

He did not sprawl, this man. Instead he held himself like a preacher with all the attention of a rail engineer; took in ever flicker of movement. He nodded his head in a bow. "I am interested in your insights, dowager Dimitrescu."

Helen paused and weighed the statement. "I hold no titles, Mr. Crowder. Please do not mock me." The teacup trembled but she held it by will alone. She might be old but was in no way lesser for it.

"I would-" Mr. Crowder held a hand to his breast as if stung. She was not taken so lightly.

"Let us speak of the children, Mr. Crowder." The girl refilled their cups. Helen gave in and stopped her from leaving. She could eat when she wanted. It was her right as host. "It is almost evening.” Mr. Crowder nodded but said nothing. “Will you join me for papanași?"

He looked curious which was all she needed from him. A expression of heed. "A pleasure."

Helen gripped the girl's hand but still could not stand unaided. It was effort to become upright and became more so every year. The girl shadowed her across the floor, Helen clasping her hand tight. Mr. Crowder looked like he intended to intervene. 

"Get the door, sir." He did silently. There was something like respect in his eyes. She didn't want or need it. She was from a climate just as remote, which molded people from the same hard earth and cold sky. 

When they were settled in a small room of the parlour she relaxed. It was warmer as it shared a wall with the kitchen and had no windows. The wallpaper was a thick forest of blue and white in the Georgian style. Her husband had let her whimsy run roughshod back then. He was taken by the bright modern style of the cities of America. They had acted like children despite the awkwardness of the Canadian war and not knowing a word on English until landing in Boston. They had left there after a few years when he had talked of the mountains around Iasi, the great rolling hills that cupped the city like large palms. She had missed it too – the smell of the blooming trees. Helen back then would stop on walks home all pull flowers from the _teii_ , the linden, and brew soothing tea that they would sip before bed looking down the valley from their open-walled porch. It smelled of cedar and the perfume of growing things. There was little of that in Boston.  

Then he had gotten measles, which left him crippled and bedridden. She had to leave him for a week locked alone in a sweltering room. Dr. Crook had come all the way from London itself, back when he was young – when they were both younger, though she had felt old looking at him – and consoled her. After Helen had been allowed back into the room, she had opened all the windows and bathed Vasile Ştefan Dimitrescu by hand. It was only days they had; once hale he succumbed in only a fortnight. Near the end he was feverish, blind and so terribly scared.

“My head hurts,” he sobbed as she wiped his brow. She couldn’t bear to let go of his hand. “ _Mi-e dor de tine_ ,” I miss you, “I cannot see your face.” Helen rocked him like the children they had left behind.

“ _Iti dau inima mea_ ,” she vowed. She pressed her lips to their clasped hands. “I did, you always have. My heart, my dear – my love and my sorrow.” She kept an icon of the Virgin at hand, would stroke it with trembling hands. Would, at the early morning hours, press her lips to it and pray so loudly in her mind – _Pe tine, Fecioară, please, please_. There was no Orthodox priest here, so Dr. Crook had begged the services of reverend from the Christian Church – the only man of God at hand. They had done what they could after. They carried her heart to the church, and she catered the town as she knew to do. It was more sombre then he would have wanted but she could not make the other mourners joyous. Helen had never felt so far from home because she had never been alone. Now she was, every day. 

She had read a book of Creangă’s years later and mourned that he wasn’t there to hear the stories so like the childhood that they had shared. Helen had kept a lamp next to her head with one of his dressing gowns laid out next to her on the bed. She would read that way, one hand resting on an empty sleeve.

Mr. Crowder was examining the very volume in interest, paging slowly through it. She knew he couldn’t read it and he didn’t pretend to. He did ask, “Is it good?”

“It is like your Tom Sawyer.” Helen made sure they both had tea. It was just as expensive as the coffee and it was good he was drinking it all. It would keep him warm and she did not intend him to say the night. He was aware of the limits of her invitation. He had come quickly, with light baggage, alone as was his custom. 

“Funny?” He smiled, had a face like a mask.

“Very much so.” She looked up as the girl set up a larger table, spread out a cloth and then the plates of papanași dusted with sugar and jeweled with preserves. Mr. Crowder was polite and waited until she took a bite. His expression did not change from that sharp keenness but seemed pleased none the less. Helen enjoyed the heavy cheese which was one of the few pleasures she had left in life. This, and her reading. When he eyes would go bad - and they would go bad - she would need to have the girl read to her, but the girl did not know Romanian so the stories of Creangă would only be kept between those closed pages and in the corners of her mind.  

Helen let him restart the conversation where they had left off – the children, the scheme. “I suppose you don’t intend on providing this for the children?”

She dabbed at her lips. “I heard you feed them in your school. Why do you do this?”

“It helps them – it keeps them healthy and warm. It ensures they come and experience education with an attentive mind.” He leaned forward. His eyes were like a wolf. “I want to do for them what they deserve.”

“Are you in the business of giving justice?” She asked.

He laughed hard. “Of a kind.” He inclined his head. “Not in the ways I used to, you understand, but yes. Justice,” he rolled the word around in his mouth. “I’ve always been a student of reward and punishment – the righteousness of actions.”

“As you wish,” she sipped at her tea for a moment. She was not as quick or skillful as she used to be. “I know you have come far for this, and I thank you for your time so I will not waste any more of yours, Mr. Crowder. I want to give money to this program you have created.”

Mr. Crowder chewed, swallowed his mouthful, took a sip of tea – considered her. “What do you want?”

“In return?” Helen crossed her ankles. “I have no persons here. You see I have no children, I am lonely.”

He said nothing. He did not reject this – the truth.

“I want you to go into the mountains and speak to the children there. I want them to have the gift you give those in town; I came from a place much like that. A place in the high lands. My husband took me to the town and from him I was given the gift of stories like that of your Tom Sawyer.” He gave her much more then that.

“There is nothing else you want, Mrs. Dimitrescu?” He was not refusing her, but he wanted to look at that soft core of truth. Mr. Crowder was a pitiless man. He would dig it out of her like the pit of a fruit. “You live here in a home of such grand things.” He tapped a dumping with his fork. “Leather bound books from Europe, a view of the mountains, servants at your beck…”

“I am not a pagan,” Helen sighed, “so these are little use to me. If I woke tomorrow to find my shelves empty and my walls bare, then it would be no different then as I am today.”

He chuckled. “You could starve, with empty shelves.”

Helen set down her tea, stung. “I am already hollow Mr. Crowder. You know I am weak – I cannot leave here. I am a prisoner in these beautiful walls. I can never go home, and even if I could I cannot leave my husband, so really, I ask you Mr. Crowder, what else would I do? I suppose I could walk into the snow like those horrible stories and die there. The animals could come a eat my flesh.” She looked at him. “I will not do that, Mr. Crowder, simply because I am not weak.”

“There is no weakness in dying,” Mr. Crowder leaned forward. “I have known many who have done so. I’ll do as you ask, I’ll follow your conditions.”

“You would have done it anyway,” Helen hid her amusement. “I have money, so I know things about you Boyd Crowder that you think are hidden in your monstrous bearing. I see that you had a heart to do such things already. Now, I simply provide you the money to do such uninterrupted.”

Mr. Crowder froze. “My ‘monstrous bearing’?”

“You are the company you keep, teacher. I know of the men you know, of being dragged to the dirt, of the passions they evoke. I am not a fool and I know you are not one either.”

“Well,” Mr. Crowder bowed his head. His shoulders shook once. “Well, ma’am, let us keep such suggestions just that.”

“Let us,” Helen held out her hand and Mr. Crowder kissed the back of hers with lowered eyes. His hair was combed over his forehead but she could see where it was thinning. What a vain creature.

* * *

_Now_

Nelson Dunlop was checking through the cloakroom in the judge’s chamber when he found the bottle. It was low shelf, got-rot shit. If it has been something pretending to be classy, he could have pretended he didn’t find it. He could still pretend he didn’t find it. Nelson set it back at the bottom of the little closet. The robes were all dry cleaned, smelling of starch and crackling with static. He shook one off where it cling to his hand, touched his fingers off the knob to release the charge.

Then he ambled out. The whole area in the back had been checked over twice, himself and the bailiff, and the jury was milling in the galley.

“This everyone?” He asked the bailiff. Dan nodded.

“Checked ‘em all.”

Nelson shook his hand, said “thanks”, then approached the jury for the case. There was six of them looking hesitant and tired. They had been in ever day at seven and it was starting to show. One of the older men, his gut straining his belt, was complaining. “Gett’n forty a day isn’t worth this.” He rubbed at an eye with the ball of his palm.

“Enjoy your civic duty,” suggested a younger man. He was wearing a suit with sharp line. His fingernails were manicured, the haircut looked expensive. Nelson didn’t want to do this again but he spoke up.

“Alright, if you all would line up to be searched, we can get you sat down and reconvene for today.”

There was a murmur, but they did as asked.  Nelson waved the handheld metal detector over their arms and legs. It squawked over a woman’s shoulders.

She turned red. “I’m wearing an underwire bra,” she hissed. Dressing for court had put her in a white top and a dark blazer.

Nelson pulled out the radio. “I’ll need to have a pat-down in court room four for a female juror.”

“Brooks is out,” came the reply, “we’re sending down Barnes.”

She was one of the bailiffs but there wasn’t that many Deputy Marshals and there was even fewer that were women. Nelson waved the juror aside. “You just wait here,” she crossed her arms, “and could the next person step forward?”

It was the other older man, who was a thin as a stick. He didn’t look ill; just oddly shrunken. Even his eyes were deep set. His knuckles were thickened with something, maybe arthritis. The wand made no noise on him or the three women behind him. Barnes had let herself in and was patting the woman with the blazer down.

“She’s good,” Barnes finally said. “I have no idea with set yours off but I’m saying she’s clear.”

“Okay, good. Thanks.” Nelson turned back to the jury. “I’ll just take you to the room and we’ll get this ball rolling.”

They all trooped through the low gates and past the juror box to the door set in the wall on the far side. It wasn’t visible to the council or the gallery. Gutterson was waiting next to it, looking placid. Or maybe he was bored. It was hard to tell. Usually it was Nelson and Deerbourne on this, or the rotation of Franks and Miller. Art keep Gutterson primed for Tactical Operations. Maybe he had fucked up that recovery a couple of months ago. Office was dirty with gossip.

Nelson watched the jury get settled. Gutterson was lurking by the door, which was only dark wood and a normal knob, not even a bit secure. There wasn’t much discussion – not even a low murmur once they had all taken a seat.

“Right – the drill; no weapons, no recording devices, no communication with either the defense or the prosecution. Don’t talk to your friends or the press – nothing on social media. This is a closed discussion for the Court.” Nelson looked at his fellow marshal. Gutterson was chewing on gum one hand hooked on his belt. “Questions, comments, concerns?”

There was a chorus of ‘no’s. Gutterson snorted a laugh. Nelson took a chair, Gutterson just kept on standing.

“Right, judge’ll come in at ten ‘til. She’ll see if you guys need anything else.”

The young woman was shifting in her seat, making it squeak. “Can I… Is there a restroom around here?”

Nelson looked over at Gutterson then got to his feet. His belt cut into his gut but he tugged it loose. “I’ll walk you down ma’am.”

She skirted Gutterson hard and Nelson found himself trying to keep up with her power walk. Her low heels clacked loudly off the marble floor, the waxed shine bright as they crossed the lobby.

“Sorry,” she was bright red. “It’s… it’s an emergency.”

Nelson floundered for a moment. “Do I need to call someone?”

“No.” She picked though her purse as she walked. He had a wife but no daughters so kept his eyes off her bag. “No, just need a minute.”

Nelson guided her down to the single occupancy restrooms. She thanked him then ducked in. He heard her lock the door, then took a few steps to the side to wait. There was a loose thread on his pants pocket. Nelson picked at it, tugged it hard until it snapped. After a slow five minutes she came back out. She had brushed her hair and looked more awake.

“Thank you so much, officer.”

“No problem, ma’am.” He led her back down the hall, through the court, into the jury room. The judge was already there. She gave Nelson a withering glance but didn’t comment on it. The lady took her chair with a cringing posture.

“Thank you for all getting here so early. I appreciate it,” Kathy Afridi was round-faced and squat but was one of the sharpest converters in the 6th Circuit Court. “Now, just to reinforce this – I know it’s been a long weekend for you all – we are expecting a determination on the case and your full attention. If you find yourself getting tired or getting bored, I’ll call a recess. This is closed court. I assume you’ve been instructed as to the seriousness of breaching the rules of that.” She took the seat at the head of the table. “So, here is what I expect…”

Nelson looked over the assembly then clocked Gutterson and then his watch. It was going to be a long, long day. He settled on his heels and rolled his shoulders, felt the weight of his gun on his hip. The things they do for the job.

* * *

_Then_

The men he had brought in to Richards had escaped. All vanished from the jail like a bunch of ghosts. They had flown the Goddamned coop. Issue was no one would give Raylan the fucking time of day. Solomon had been harassed but refused to tell Raylan any more, preferring to sport his swollen eye is silence. Cut on his cheek was gonna scar too but he wouldn’t speak on it. Bigger then the judge or the Sheriff - this whole town was twisted up and rotting on the vine. He was sick of the bull and the simpering words. Felt like the past months were all wasted and Raylan knew in his bones that the deep, dark sickness of this holler wasn't going to be fixed by him or any war or any cause until well after King was dead and gone. God damn them all. 

“I’ve helped enough,” Solomon had said that Sunday and Raylan didn’t see him again. His wife wouldn’t talk to him either; she just stopped Raylan at her door and shook her head. She didn't look like he blamed him any, but Raylan was well practiced at blaming his-self - didn't need no outside help with that. When he left, he pulled down a noose hung on a tree by their house. Strong rope and tight around a branch. It wasn’t subtle and he spent the walk back angry at just about everything.  The sun, the cold, the slow quiet walk, the mud, the men who went around doing whatever they wanted, the fact his badge didn’t give him anything – just a paycheck and no respect. Early in the day and all cut with that sharp cold light. Was enough for a man to think of God a bit more, and what it meant to suffer for no reason at all. 

Nothing for it so Raylan finally sent a letter to the Governor forcefully requesting some kinda investigation, even for the Army to send a few men down, then got ready to leave town pissed as hell.

The Sheriff wasn’t helpful in the least. Middle of a Tuesday and investigation a mess deep as a slurry pit. He had made Raylan wait outside for the better part of an hour. Raylan killed a few minutes smoking down a cigarette for lack of anything to do. He had taken to checking his watch like a tic. Then he checked his pistols, the girth of the belts and how they sat on his hips. He had lost a bit more weight which made him look more like Arlo then he liked - made him look old. Raylan shoved his hands under his armpits to keep them warm enough to pull the hammers. Only after all that did the man let him inside.

“I can’t tell you where any of them have gone,” the Sheriff had insisted, chewing a cigar and looking all relaxed at his kitchen table. “I figure they’ve gone into the woods – they’re a wily bunch.”

“I wouldn’t give ‘em too much credit,” Raylan argued. “They don’t seem to be a collection of criminal masterminds." He drew out a circle quick with two fingers over the tabletop. "I bet you go to their mammas they’ll all be sitting down for supper. Hell, most are soft boys – not like they’re going to hide a fire and seeing as the trees are bare you’ll just need to follow the smoke.”

“All things considered, Marshal, we appreciate all you’ve done, coming out here but some things we can handle ourselves. We’ll take care of them, you’ll see.” The Sheriff didn’t have the grit for the outdoors. He was all soft middle and flabby neck, skin milky in the light with an uncomfortable rash around his writs and neck, sensitive and prone to irritation. Raylan smiled tightly, tapping his holster slowly. 

“I can see you’re takin’ care of them alright.” He had taken a seat but was regretting it now. Hadn’t been offered a drink. No fucking consideration. “Seeing how harboring these assholes will put you in a world of hurt.”

The Sheriff had the gall to shrug. “You’re the one on soft ground, if you don’t mind me saying.” Raylan just waited. He didn’t much like being threatened but wasn’t keen on getting hung either. “Coming in here with all your…notions. Got a big mouth on you. I suggest you get on to your side of range and I’ll do the upkeep of my people.”

They were at an impasse and Raylan said as much. “Can’t get out of your hair, seeing as someone kilt my horse.” He stood stiffly, laid a hand on the back of the chair. “You suggesting I walk?”

When the Sheriff crossed his arms, he looked too fucking pleased. “I’m sure I can get something suitable, but you do have a good pair of boots, Marshal.”

Raylan took the slung backed horse without a comment. As long as he got back to Harlan he couldn’t complain too much. Before he left town he doubled back to see Roberts.

“You hear anything you send me word.” Raylan hadn’t bothered to remove his hat.

The Judge shook his hand. He and the Sheriff had knocked heads according to the locals. “I will.” He was stern but would, Raylan knew.

It took five days plodding on to get back to the familiar holler. He was sick of the swaybacked ride. Mud clung to the sides of his boots and clotted the hem of his coat. It had rained on and off, enough to keep his clothes damp. By the time he made it to the edge of town he was sick of his own smell. Despite that it was a clear bright day so he went all the way to the office. The Sheriff's hat and coat were hung but his desk was empty. Raylan shrugged off his own. It was stiff, flaked mud onto the floor. Cells were empty, laid with fresh sawdust but the piss bucket was day as a bone. The third desk was clear but had been wiped for dust. By the stove was some cord so he added one and stroked up the heat. Raylan checked the coffee but it wasn’t even brewed. He went out the back and drank some water from the barrel. It was earthy and he got some dirt in his teeth. Took a moment to spit in out then rubbed his teeth with a handkerchief and tucked it away. He pissed quickly.

As he stepped back in he loosed the necktie. Heat finally radiated off the stove. There was a few cold spots he walked though as he crossed the room. Raylan dropped his stickpin on the desk, followed by the cufflinks and the whole collar. Then he rubbed his writs, chaffed them for warmth. 

His book was in the top drawer but when he opened it to where he last left off, he couldn’t remember reading much of any of it. The whole cheap thing was a smeared memory. With a sigh he dropped it back then tried to shut the drawer. It got stuck halfway. Tugging it just jammed it cocked on the runners so when he scraped his palm on the knob, he left it. The chair felt decent to sit on. Raylan’s back ached and it was good to sit still for once. Some mail had piled up. Looked like no one had been nosy enough to try and open them. Boyd hadn’t been by because two were payments from the Service and were full and accounted for – one for the trip out to Lexington and the other for his goods. Classic efficacy in the federal system. There was a short missive from Thomason which Raylan replied to in kind. No news, quiet in the local, new year and same shit.

When noon rolled in there was a tread on the porch. Raylan looked up from the paper. It was a backdate so he wasn’t paying too much attention. The man who darkened the threshold wasn’t anyone Raylan knew. He took the kid’s measure as he stepped in. There was fuzz on his upper lip and an attempt at sideburns – patchy. His hands were clean enough, but he was unarmed and shifty in a way that made Raylan tired. Petty, small town shitkicker. Just want he needed.

“What you want, son?”

The kid rocked at bit on his boots. Either they were too big, or he was just a twitchy spit. “Nothin’.”

“Then get,” Raylan turned back to the paper. The door was still open which fluttered the pages. “I’m not paying to heat the outdoors.”

Instead the kid edged in, hauling the door closed as he did. “I’m supposed to be here.” Like he was arguing or like Raylan gave a fuck.

“That so?” Raylan ignored him best he could.

“I’m meeting someone,” the kid was still standing.

“Then take a fucking seat. You hanging around like a bad smell is pissing me off.” Pointedly Raylan set aside the paper and slit open another letter. It was from the Thomason sister-in-law with the same news and a more suggestive tone: _… if you ever find yourself passing by again…_ The kid went and sit in the chair at the empty desk, near enough to putting them across the room. Raylan rubbed at his jaw. 

“Who you waiting on?”

The kid crossed his arms. “I got a meeting.”

“That so?”

“Yeah.” Then he kicked his feet up on the desk. Raylan didn’t say anything. Wasn’t his desk. He scratched back a reply; kept it formal enough that she’d get the message. No way Raylan would be back Pineville way unless forced – wasn’t her fault but he wasn’t going to make an exception for her either. He would be forced that way, there or London, no doubt, but she wasn’t stupid and Raylan had no interest in messing with the timestreams or whatever the fuck Boyd was so concerned about. Best keep away from that nonsense in any form.

A few minutes passed in silence. There was a tense undercurrent on the kid’s half of the room, but Raylan kept himself busy. Must be waiting on Hagens so it was none of his worry either; Boyd would tell him later if it mattered.

He didn’t expect it to be the missus and she herself was openly surprised. She managed to school her expression by the time she slammed the door firmly.

“When did you get back, Marshal?” Alma had her hands clasped tight in front, tone genteel. Her gloved fingers were crumpled. Velvet and dark, expensive. Her face had been powered as well which licked concern up Raylan’s back. There had been a fair amount of change in his absence.

“No more then an hour ago.” He tapped a finger on his desk, then pointed at the kid. “That for you?”

She hardly looked at the spitfuck before she nodded sharply. “Yes, this is concerning the current local,” she twisted her mouth, “oversight.” Alma let that hang as if it would get Raylan out the door. He leaned back.

“I am the town marshal as well.” Raylan held his hands open. “We are in town.”

Alma couldn’t have pulled herself straighter if she wanted. “Alright then.” She crossed the room to take her husband’s seat. The kid was just watching, picking at his fingers. He used his teeth to peel a nail edge then spat it on the floor. No one moved for a moment. Raylan checked his watch then re-read the closest letter at hand.

“Could you please stand in front of me?” Alma spoke with a strained thread to the kid, who returned a lolling nod then did as asked. From the back he was just as unimpressive – thin but lacking any strength, his arms soft.

“You are interested in being a deputy?”

The kid nodded then tacked on a “Yeah.”

Alma rolled back her shoulders. “And what interests you in the position, sir?”

This made the kid waver. He looked at Raylan, as if it would suddenly strike inspiration in his heart. “Pay’s pretty good.”

Alma smiled tightly. “You will only be paid if mustered to service.”

“Not that many showing up, though,” the kid twitched a shrug. Raylan filed that away. He stacked all the open letters on to the book. There was a few folded notes; he skimmed them – all from Boyd, not one longer then a telegram would be. Raylan checked the time then stood up. Alma started to rise but he waived her off. He paused then tossed a note on her desk. Let Mike take care of the nag; Raylan had enough of Danville for a lifetime.

“The school meeting today?”

She hesitated.

“Never mind, I’ll find out.” Raylan tugged on his coat. It was dry enough. He felt the stink settle on him. “Good to see you, ma’am.” He nodded to the kid as well then beat an exit. 

* * * * * *

His feet was cold enough to be numb in his boots. The school was a barn, with a rolling door and thick walls. Raylan could hear something but it was muffled so he rapped on the wood sharp. Whoever was trying to open it struggled so Raylan pulled from his side.

“Teach in?” he asked the girl. She nodded, which sent her braids swinging. As she stepped back Raylan followed her in. It was warm inside, brightened with a fair amount of lamps and filled with a collection of tables and seats. Boyd had gotten himself a desk – near a copy of the one Raylan used, with the same chair and all. The children were hunched over little books while Boyd squinted at his own copy. The girl abandoned Raylan to take her seat. When Boyd looked up his stern expression melted to one of toothy glee. Raylan fingered one of the notes in his pocket and wondered how much shit they were going to get themselves into.

“Boyd.” He said, standing right up to the edge of the desk feeling oddly cowed, like when he had been in a similar position years ago – back when he was in school himself.

“Raylan,” Boyd replied. “You look well.”

Raylan nodded and thumbed the chain of his watch. “Don’t look so bad yourself.” Then he pulled out a note, just enough to flash its existence to Boyd before palming it again. Boyd’s expression didn’t change.

“You free tonight for dinner?”

Raylan considered the invitation, the note, then shrugged. “Bit of a loss as to were I should wait out the time ‘til then.”

“You could take up your desk in town, overseeing all those lovely folk.” Boyd considered him for a moment. “Seeing as you walked all the way here, I think you’d rather not."

"Hmm," the book had small print and Raylan wasn't much for reading upside down. "Reckon from your note I'm not welcome at the brother's?"

"I think," Boyd leaned hard on an elbow, "that its just the one and its the one that doesn't like you, I'd say not."

"Ruben didn't like me?" Raylan crossed his arms. "Imagine that."

Boyd bit back a laugh, focused on the book. "Listen, I'll be done in a few. Go over to mine and get yourself clean. I could smell you coming up the road."

"You know me that well?" Raylan shot back, awkward. 

Boyd dropped the act. His fixed Raylan with those mad eyes. "You look dead, friend. Go'wan. I'll be seeing you."

Raylan knocked on the desk once. "Alright." Then he paused, but had nothing to add so left quiet as he could. It wasn't a clean exit. Boyd distracted the kids with some kinda exercise as he did. The moment indoors had him feeling downright frozen and the wind chapped his face. He was getting tired of how hard just getting on was here. Where every waking moment was a toil; every act of mercy was thin and tragedy driven but was callow act of man. 

* * * * * *

He was so tried it took three attempts to get off the first boot. His feet were so swollen he could press down and see them give. His smallest toes was hard, cold to the touch and curled tight. When Raylan tried to pull them flat it make his hiss a bit. He boiled the kettle twice to have enough water. Getting his feet in almost gave him a heart attack, felt like they had been peeled clean of flesh and rubbed with salt. Small mercy that he was alone and could sit at the edge of the tub for a moment. He scrubbed until he felt clean. The water was dark, a film of oil on the surface. Raylan ran the washcloth on his skin until it hurt and there was no dirt left. He then washed his hair over a bowl on the table - three times and rough behind his ears. 

Finally, finally, he felt clean. He threw on some night clothes and new socks then hauled the tub into the yard and tipped it over. It ran fast, spreading out over some thin grass and stripping away the thin frost. Raylan hauled up the tub and rushed back inside. He left his boots at the door and laid the thin seam with a towel rolled tight. He took a while to clean the tub, dried it until it was spotless. It disappeared under the bed, right behind the trunk. Raylan tried it but it was locked.

Wasn't much of a lock so Raylan forced it. There was a stack of bedding - he pulled a quilt free. Again, he disarmed the lever-rifle and buried the cartridges under some blankets. There was a Bible which he fished out. It had a few volumes, each in a tight leather cover. Raylan thumbed through it; it was a Protestant edition and fell open by itself to a few parts. He checked the front for a dedication but it lacked any. 

It stopped at Luke 11 and Raylan scanned the Lord's Prayer but didn't do more then breathe. He shuffled the other volumes and pulled one free, setting the others back into the nest of blankets. Then he shut the trunk and climbed into bed; he pulled the quilt over his legs -it was cool and made him shudder from the chill. He propped himself against the headboard and opened to the one his mother used to read him:

_There was a man in the land of Uz, whose name was Job; and that man was perfect and upright, and one that feared God, and eschewed evil._

* * *

_Now_

Tim drained half his cup with the first sip, skipping right over the taste. Across the sticky laminate Rachel was reading the menu with Nick next to her hunched over his phone.

"How was the study group?" The kid had shot up like a weed. He was taller then Tim now, all of him stretched out and lankly. He was glowing with health. Pressing into the bench Tim could feel a bruise on the back of his upper arm and some of his knuckles had split and it hurt to grip the mug. He wasn't old enough to feel this tired. Stateside he wasn't running on Rip It poised any moment to crap his BDUs.

Nick looked up briefly. "It was good."

"You doing math, Rachel said?"

Nick jerked up a shoulder, "English.  _The Scarlet Letter_." 

Tim nodded. "Cool."

"You ever read it?" Nick asked. Rachel was ignoring them. Maybe she thought this was good for Nick, but she wasn't keeping track of her nephew. So she must think this was good for _him._ Fuck.

"Yeah, a few times." The Sandbox was a place with loads of out of date T.V. downloads and ripped PDFs of bestsellers and high school lists. "Got myself a high school diploma, don't I?"

They were interrupted by the waitress who gave the table a lackluster once-over. Her name-tag read LaVelle and her nails were bubblegum pink. "What are you having, handsome?"

"I'll have the chicken and waffles," Tim handed over the menu. "And a top-up on this coffee, please."

"I'll have the same, thank you." When Nick handed over his menu, LaVelle grinned. 

"Just like Daddy - what about you mama?"

Rachel's eyes were wide, but she just said, "I'll have the grits and a side of bacon. Coffee was well." As LaVelle took the menu, Rachel tacked on a "thanks" and then crossed her arms. Three utensil sets clattered to the table. 

Tim was grinning into his coffee. "How you feel'n, mama?"

"This gets back to the office I'm taking your stress ball. Make you deal with Art for the week and all that paperwork -"

"What, you not dating?" Nick looked like he was horrified at himself for asking. Tim finished his coffee and let Rachel take it.

"We're better as friends, and I'm his boss, technically."

Tim unrolled his fork and knife from the thin napkin. "It's not allowed, kid." He spin his mug. "No harm in asking, I am a catch." 

Rachel laughed. "Right, you and  _all_ your baggage Gutterson."

"It comes in Louis Vuitton." 

Nick unrolled his own utensils. "Sorry."

Rachel rubbed his arm. "Don't be. Should have thought this would come up sooner or later, seeing as I feed him almost as much as you." Nick finally smiled. 

"Do you like  _The Scarlet Letter_?" Tim asked Nick after a moment. The kid nodded.

"Yeah, it's not that bad. We had to read  _King Lear_ and..." Tim followed as best he could - he must have read Shakespeare at some point but couldn't remember any of it. 

When LaVelle came back with the plates, balanced up and down her arms, Tim heckled Rachel into getting a slice of pie. She did and they ate it between the three of them, bight lemon curd then Tim ducked to the bathroom and settle the bill. LaVelle was thrilled to be part of the espionage. Tim ended up with another slice to go, "just for the lady."

"You treat her well." She commented from behind the cash register.

"Not even half as good as she treats me," he replied, and left her a ten for a tip.


	7. Chapter 7

_[The Harpes, a family band who emigrated from North Carolina,] were soon heard of again in Adair County, near Columbia, where they met a small boy, the son of Colonel Trabue, with a pillow case of flour, whom they doubtless murdered. Many years afterward, human bones, answering to the size of the boy at time of his disappearance, were found in a sink-hole near the place he was said to have been murdered. Their path, at intervals, all along in the direction to the mouth of the Green River, was marked with murders and robberies of the most brutal character. They seemed inspired with hatred against the whole human race... A History of Kentucky by William B. Allen, 1872_

* * *

  _Then_

The start of March brought with it a host of problems. The sodden fields stopped holding any rain, creeks swelled until they broke the banks, and four of the Tuttle children drowned. Raylan had led the recovery effort, Boyd heard, from the mothers who would flock around the door every weekday morning. They were better then the daily paper by being utterly confidant in the news they carried. While the children were distressed Boyd wasn’t in the position to soothe them, nor was he expected to. Instead he fed them and taught them and left them every Wednesday evening as he made his way to Rev. Wm. Vaughan’s for a Bible study. The good doctor was there so Boyd was there; if there was a motive deeper then that Boyd didn’t care to probe it.

The Reverend dressed like a farmer to appeal to the good folk of Harlan, but he was Baptist and they didn't trust easy. Boyd joined the men in the large room of the house. There was a loose ring of mostly occupied chairs. With the lamps turned high the room was thick with the stink of oil. It had fresh wallpaper and a few framed photographs courtesy of a Mr. Ritter who had done similar work during the War. Raylan had thrown such a fit about getting photographed with the local law Ritter had Boyd pose with him instead. They had been set like a parody, both holding long guns and Boyd seated with Raylan’s hand heavy on his shoulder. They were made to wait long minutes as it developed. Then Ritter had penned at the bottom – _Raylan Givens, Marshal, and companion Schm. Boyd Crower, Harlan Ky. 1877_ – and set it in a neat leather frame. It had found its way into Boyd’s trunk in the box of his Bible volumes of which Raylan had been applying himself to for weeks. He had no interest in debating theology, however, and dismissed the concept outright.

“I have no inclination to talk religion or anything else with you, Boyd.” The marshal was in low spirts which were only roused by vehemence or drink and for once Boyd was short on both. Not that it stopped Raylan from scrounging some when he wanted. 

So that led to Givens wading hip deep after small, swollen bodies while Boyd listened to the Reverend coach his peers though this interpretation of the Good Book. It was a good thirty minutes of speaking then another thirty of conversation. The speech, more often than not, found its way into Sunday Mass. Grover Stevens would always engage for a while then invite Boyd back to his place for a drink and further discussion. They would walk carefully from the Reverend’s place to the South of Mount Pleasant. As they did Stevens would talk the whole way. The doctor had a short repertoire of medical tales that he liked to thrill with. Boyd had heard them all.

“You are a ghoulish sort, Stevens,” Boyd looked up to the stars. The lights here were so poor he could see just about each picked out in the darkness. Stevens laughed him off while avoiding a partially muddy section of track.

“I don’t remember you complaining like a woman when we had to dispose of Richard Cole.”

Boyd scanned the gloom seeking the surgery and its sign. “It was a poor way to be left.” Ruben must not have had the mind or stomach so had gone into the woods for a while. His brother during that time had passed, trapped in the bed, left to rot there and leak onto the floor. It was a neighbor who raised the alarm. They had to bury Richard with the straw mattress because it had fused to him. There was nothing to arrest Ruben on when he came back.

Just past the edge of town was the home of Stevens, and Boyd knew it well enough that he usually looked for the shape of it. Tonight the surgery had been well lit. There were a few figures crossing the front room. Back up the road the grocery was dark meaning the Herring brothers were in town. Jacob Dan wasn’t much for company, so Boyd knew it was a meeting night by the stillness of the road alone. In front was blocked a trap painted red with a dark trim. Boyd eyed it as Stevens led him past. Noble’s Holler was still impassable and unsettled, which meant if these folks wanted night riding, they had to plan for a few days away.

Inside the warmth was a shock from the chill night. The doctor’s wife must have set out the coffee before she retired. Boyd poured himself a cup. Mike was a big talker but blanched at the real work which left real decision in the hands of the Herring bothers. They were all there. Jacob Dan was spitting sullenly into the grate. Mike was lurking on the other side of the mantel, smoking his pipe down by sucking the stem too fast. The brothers had taken the couch which left Boyd, the doctor, and the mayor the loose chairs. 

Usually even the action discussed was small shit – fires and theft – but the energy was too coiled tonight. The pleasantries were abandoned. 

“We need to help James Michael Donavan,” Paul came out with. “He had a vision and he acted upon that vision and we would be remiss to abandon him when he needed our support.”

“Why would we be helping a man I do not know?” Stevens asked. Mike shot him a filthy look, which the doctor missed. Stevens was more interested in discussion, which Boyd would find tedious if he wasn't so dangerous.

“He was wrongly accused and had to flee for his life – those Union men would string him up on the word of a…” Paul was so lathered he bit his sentence short. Boyd leaned back in his chair, the mayor a thick bulk beside him. Harold looked ill in the light. He was sweating right through his wool.

“The Army’s after him?” Boyd asked, probing what they knew carefully. That was at least state level, these days, stacking up felonies like cord-wood. From what Raylan said the Army should have been there and gone.

“Had to go to Indiana,” Mike admitted. “Army stayed in Danville until the end of last moth then started moving towards Tennessee. John says he has a friend who helped him out the Commonwealth but he’s planning on coming back.”

“He needs men – good men with horses and a history of service.” John looked at each of them critically. “He needs us. We have been meeting and while discussion is stimulating there is nothing that speaks to the truth and strength of our cause – the cause of our people – then action.”

Dan spat into the fire and it hissed and popped. Boyd could feel himself getting eager but effected a causal air. “I cannot commit to Indiana, as I am sure you understand, gentlemen. While my heart beats for the cause – you know this! – I have the position of teacher for this town and the surrounding region.”

Harold was flushed from the heat and his breath was sour. “Are you suggesting that the cause is not important to you?” Boyd shook his head.

“Nothing of the sort. I just need to be sure I am not abandoning one for another, no matter how noble, as passion does not keep me fed or housed.” The cup in front of Boyd had gone cold with an oily sheen. He looked up from it to the room.

“There's no rush,” Paul admitted, tartly. “The muster will take time and we don't want the Union down our ass.”

Stevens looked pleased enough. He topped up his own cup, offered it wordlessly to the group. Even through Boyd refused more was poured in. So he took a bracing sip as the brothers crowded in on Jacob Dan. As the awkward minutes ticked on Mike checked his watch then nodded to Harold.

The mayor heaved himself up at the direction. “I’m going to be heading home, and I’ll that blasted contraption with me.” Harold looked at Boyd. “Can I give you a lift, Mr. Crowder, at least into town? It’s a long cold walk. I know it, I’d did it a time or two myself.” Boyd didn’t believe that but took up the offer. Would be strange not to. Paul was a shifty bastard, but he wasn’t the head of the sank Raylan was after – man was just the neck. Stevens took that to slip deeper into the house. At the door Boyd tilted his hat low. They would need to flush Danville and rope Donavan. Boyd could feel the brothers’ watch them leave. Outside was thick with mist.

“Can’t hardly see thirty yards,” Mike bitched. While his coat had a nice fur collar it looked thin. Boyd climbed into the back of the red trap with him. The sheriff huddled in close, and Boyd cottoned on that he meant to talk.

“What did you think of the Reverend this evening, Mr. Crowder?”

“He is an educated man,” Boyd replied. The man could read, which put him in a sphere of influence. “I didn’t know you were keen on the Baptist movement, sir.”

Mike laughed, “I am as Methodist as yourself, Mr. Crowder. The moment sparks my curiosity, to be sure, but I put no more stock into in then the Ohio cults and what have you. The oddities are queer enough to watch. No need to partake in them as well, with all that Pastor and Bishop nonsense – a looser collection of fools I have never seen.”

“And you say you were resided in the capital of this great state.” They jolted over a dip in the road.

“Best be telling Givens he needs to see to his townly duties,” Mike sighed. “I only lived in big city for a time,” he grinned into the darkness, “but what a time it was. It was Richmond, a real city, teacher, not like anything you’d see here.”

“So, you missed Danvillie?” Boyd asked.

Mike stopped smiling. “Yes,” his response was tight. “Only just.”

They parted at the center of town, the trap swinging to the maintained rural areas while Boyd kept on alone. The darkness let the time slip by quick enough. He was soon crossing the river then scrambling up the hill to the light. Raylan must have left it on. He rotated between a cot at the three-side, Boyd’s floor, and maybe his desk – Boyd didn’t need to keep tack, the town was small enough. Raylan was on the bed. He looked dead asleep. The lever rifle was resting on the table with the breach open.

“You hide my cartages again?” Boyd asked as he hug up his coat. A new bottle of grain liquor was already low. “Best no put them in the oven.” The stove was stroked high, in front were Raylan’s boots just staring to dry. The floor around them was patchy with damp.

“Don’t have an oven, Boyd.” Raylan was groggy but awake. He seemed to have pulled out every blanket, quilt, and flannel Boyd owned. Despite that his hands were blanched and fingernails dark. “I wouldn’t do something so stupid anyway. Remember Dickie?”

“Don’t think it was Dickie. Might have been his cousin –”

“Martie.” Raylan sat up with a groan. “Yeah, near about kilt his whole family with that stunt.”

“Think it was just himself and his sister.” There were a few potatoes in the pot, just warm to the touch. Boyd ate one standing there, then finished off the water in the jug on the table. There was about a two cups worth and he finished it greedily.

“You find them all?” Boyd asked as he kicked his own boots off. Raylan blearily watched him hang up his clothes by the warmth. Heavy-eyed, Boyd tugged his nightclothes on. He had to tie the trousers tight. “Well?” Situated, Boyd glanced over.

Raylan was flat on his back looking up. He looked too beat down to be angry. “Yes. All four of them. How was Bible study?”

“Fine.”

Raylan tugged the blankets higher. “Were out late.” His voice was flat enough to be a warning. Boyd cut the shit.

“The Klan had a meeting. They’re pissed about Danville and might try and get Donavan back into Kentucky for a final hurrah.” There was a smattering of rain overhead.

“I sent for the Army,” Raylan groaned. “Don’t see what else I could be doing besides getting them one at a time.” Boyd wasn’t keen on the arrangement, but he climbed into bed. This close he could smell the drink coming off Raylan. His eyes were bloodshot when they flickered over to Boyd. “What say you?”

“You need to cut back on the bottle, son. This rate you’ll end up like your old man.”

Raylan turned away. “Fuck you Boyd, I ain’t like that.” The drumming had the sound of sleet, sharp, staccato. His jaw ticked hard.

When Boyd settled a volume jabbed him in the side. There was a scrap of paper marking Ecclesiastes. He skimmed it as he said, “I think it’s a short rope and a long drop.”

“What is?” Raylan asked the ceiling.

“Our option, if we do this man by man.”

“‘We’?” Raylan scoffed. “You never had a cause you believed in.”

“I believe in the dignity of man,” Boyd retorted.

“Bullshit.” They let the sentiment sit. “You talk about that in Bible study?”

“We discussed Hebrews, if you must know. It was an evening of edification. You and I were not raised with organised religion like this. ” They has been reared under the watchful, wrathful firebrand religion of the mountain churches.

Raylan chocked down a laugh. “You still don’t know any.”

Boyd bared his teeth like a smile. “Neither do you.”

“I’ll have you know I lived in Miami, Crowder. Plenty down there.”

Boyd tipped the book. “You get sufficient study of your own? I wonder what part of this drew your eye, Raylan Givens.” Boyd laughed to himself. “Was it the vanity and vexation? That grey is coming in strong. The judgement, maybe? You have a hard heart, son.” Raylan didn’t rise to the bait.

“Be not over much wicked, neither be thou foolish: why shouldest thou die before thy time? That seem right to you?” Raylan jerked one way then the other. He must have been riling himself up since he got off the river. “Jesus, they were so cold in that water Boyd, and all their mamas were sad, but it is just life here. This is a sick place.”

Boyd rubbed his face. “Saw kids killed in Kuwait too.”

“Did you?” Raylan was unpleasant. Downright ill-tempered. The rain was letting up some. “That gives you some kinda –”

“You saw Ben O’Conner down in the mine.” When the beam had caved in it had split Ben’s head open like a melon. He hadn’t even know he was dead. “He was only few years on from us, then.”

“These were babies,” Raylan was getting ragged. “This place is going to kill me, Crowder. Not made for this nonsense.”

“You’re complaining a lot for a gunslinger, Givens. Where’s all the spitfire you were supposed to run me ‘round the holler with?” Boyd flicked forward a few pages. “Hypothetical briar patch, us two. Here,” he had found what he wanted. “Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labor.” He was getting into the meter; he lived for this poetry, for all Raylan dismissed it as an act. Read this was like breathing, like living, living hard and loud. “For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up. Again, if two lie together, then they have heat: but how can one be warm alone?”

Raylan snickered. “That’s downright romantic.”

“I’m not done: And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him. Just saying, we have a plan. It’s a good plan, even which we never had much of, and from what we’re sending to the Army and the rest we won’t have to do much heavy lifting. You know it’s not my style.” His style was to be cool. Always cool and always ahead. The hail was coming in waves. Nearby the trees lashed but the noise was muted by the walls.

“You had Dewey for that.”

Boyd shut the book. “You know I ain’t gonna respond to that. You can slight me all you want, as I am your friend, but Dewey…”

“I miss that little shithead.” Raylan interjected. He was looking better, closer to sleep. Like the talking finally wore him out. “Miss all that. Art, Rachel,” He swallowed hard. “Helen.”

“Ice cream,” Boyd added as he slipped out of bed. He tucked the volume away, adding, “I still owe you that. Trip to Cincinnati still in the cards, day by train roughly.” The trunk shut softly.

Raylan was half asleep. “You can buy in from the Dairy Queen in Corbin. Save you the time.”

Boyd didn’t reply, just stirred down the stove some then climbed back into bed.

* * *

_Now_

Art wasn’t prone to dramatics. He avoided such hysterics in his professional and personal life so when people tried to bring such difficulties to his doorstep he tended to take it personally. Which made the appearance of SSA Parnell at his home downright disturbing. Leslise let him in while Art was working on his coffee and eggs. She clocked the gun and choirboy haircut and beat a hasty retreat.

“I’m going to book club,” she was halfway out the door. “You need anything?” Art could tell she wasn't really asking. 

He shook his head. “No thanks, honey. Enjoy yourself.”

That left Parnell lurking at the entrance to the kitchen, about as welcome as mayflies.

“Pull up a chair,” Art offered. “Food? Seeing you’ve forgotten your tie and your usual announcement I imagine you didn’t have time for breakfast.”

Parnell shook his head. “No, thank you," he said to the breakfast but took the chair. "I came here because of that women the Staties picked up out. Wanted to let you know she’s been found guilty of the abuse but by reason of insanity she’s been remanded into psychiatric care. She's been hospitalized with the baby for now. The kids are all in foster care and seem to be doing well." Art waited for the point. Parnell dug in his inner suit pocket. "A name came up that I wanted to run by you. Are you familiar with a Deborah Oberhausen?” He handed over a small photo. Art studied it. The photo was small, seemed like a grimy yearbook portrait. Ms. Oberhausen had on a thin headband and long blonde hair set in big coils. Her shirt had a while collar with rounded edges. Something like Art’s older cousins used to wear. 

“You even come in contact with the Oberhausen or Mussleman families?” Parnell asked. Art set down the photo. "Ever been flagged from your research?"

“No, none. Never heard of them.” He didn't offer to follow up but did hand over coffee. The agent looked like he needed it. 

“Alright. We had reason to believe that Mrs. Lawless is related to Ms. Deborah Oberhausen.” Parnell seemed vaguely shifty. 

That was suspicious. “How related?”

Instead of answering Parnell drank his coffee. He then looked at the bottom like is had some kind of useful purpose. “We think Ms. Oberhausen is Mrs. Lawless’ mother or grandmother.”

“This is a very good photo.” Was all Art could say.

“Ms. Oberhausen went missing in the same area as Marshal Givens on September 18th, 1954.”

Art poured the man more coffee then shoved over some eggs. “I have no idea about that. Let's say my focus is Lawless and Oberhausen. Considering the current age of Lawless and Oberhausen’s at the time of her disappearance Oberhausen would be in her early eighties.”

Parnell just shrugged and accepted the plate.

“Meaning she could still be alive.” Mused Art. “If that is what you're suggesting?”

“I’m more suggesting this in the other direction. That she also ended up in 18-whenever and is stuck - was stuck. I say this because I don’t see how else the Oberhausen DNA markers would show up there. According to what we know the 20th century Oberhausen’s moved to this area in 1946, from Delaware, and we matched relations from that area to Mrs. Lawless as well.”

Art sighed. “Alright, Parnell. What do you want to do with this information?”

“We’re going to re-examine all the missing persons cases in the East Coal Filed and create a separate database. UK has been very helpful with this,” Parnell was fatigued, picking at his eggs. “We’re considering running all the historic remains as a cross-reference as well. This might show us where Givens ended up.”

“Sounds like you have it all squared away. What do you need us for?”

“Just keeping you apprised, Chief Deputy.” Parnell finally ate some of his food. He made a face then added salt. Art could see him considering something. “It’s not on the wire yet but there’s been a man picked down in Cave City.”

“Pretty far,” Art commented. “Not my desk, either. I do the East district of Kentucky, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“They’ve brought him into Louisville but I think you’d want to talk to him.”

“Any particular reason Parnell or do you like annoying me on my weekend?”

Parnell scraped his plate. “He offered to roll on Boyd Crowder.”

* * *

_Then_

He hadn’t asked to come which is why Raylan found himself lurking in the back just inside the door. Outdoors was warm enough that it was left open. There had been more green by and by until one morning it seemed like winter had finally lost its grip. A tree near town had exploded into bloom, loosing petals in the breeze like snow. The day had started quiet; he had soup the night before and felt pretty good. Overhead the sky was this bright deep blue with a few clouds and a hot sun just creeping along. 

Enoch had glanced back as he settled at this post but everyone else was still riveted on the pulpit. The tables had been pulled clear and the chairs were set in long rows. It looked nothing like a schoolhouse. Raylan idly wondered where the blackboard had gone to. The pastor at the front was somber, nothing before of him but the congregation. Raylan could see the back of Boyd’s head in the front row. It was quiet then the pastor started to speak.

“I’m talking about fear.” The pastor opened with, looking around the crowd. “Are you afraid?”

There were some murmurs. His mouth twisted, like he got caught sour moment while to cords stood out in his neck. Raylan scratched his jaw, yawned. The day was too nice for this agony, really. 

“Are you scared? Are you troubled?" The pastor asked. "We’ve had strife, and pain, and the death of these poor babies. The death of an sick man, and brother Ruben is struggling from the drink. So, I ask, are you afraid?” Then he opened his arms, didn’t pause. “I am a feared – deep, deep in my heart I am troubled. I’m talking of terror. _Terror,_ " he repeated."You know the darkness and the hand of Satan that moves the world in ways we cannot see that drive us to worry, that drive us to doubt. _Why do you doubt?_ Is it because the world is unkind? Is it because the world is not fair? _Because it is not just?_ I say to you the world is not just! Only _God_ is just, and his judgment is harsh upon us these days.” He was bellowing for breath, but his tone was low. “I can feel this – but there is a light. It is the light of Jesus Christ. He brings me comfort; how do we know of this comfort?  Say to you the words of Psalms 56! Psalms 56: Be merciful unto me, O God: for man would swallow me up; he fighting daily oppresseth me’. It says _Forgive me God! Please, please save me!_ ”

Some people were nodding. The pastor nodded right back. Raylan crossed his arms.

“There are those out there who would cause me trouble. Save me Lord Jesus from these demons. It is clear: 'Mine enemies would daily swallow me up: for they be many that fight against me, O thou most High.' We are surround, you’re not wrong. Danger in every corner. But - but listen: 'What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee.' Trust – we trust God and Jesus. I know we do for this is how we praise. 'In God I will praise his word, in God I have put my trust; I will not fear what flesh can do unto me.' Trust in Him! Trust in God! And evil is not alone, no for 'Every day they wrest my words: all their thoughts are against me for evil. They gather themselves together, they hide themselves, they mark my steps, when they wait for my soul.' Spare them? No! 'Shall they escape by iniquity?' No! no because 'in thine anger cast down the people, O God.'”

He slammed a hand down. Boyd was bobbing like one of those toy drinking birds. Raylan shifted on his feet but did not uncross his arms. “Cast them down, God, cast them out, these sinners and their strife. They clothe themselves in unrest, and sow doubt. They make you doubt. God is not the one who troubles you. _That is the Devil._ When you cry it is not _for_ God but _to_ God. God does want your sorrow; he wants to ease your wretchedness. When you are lost, He is there, ‘Thou tellest my wanderings: put thou my tears into thy bottle: are they not in thy book? When I cry unto thee, then shall mine enemies turn back: this I know; for God is for me.’ He is there for you – He is here in this room, can you not feel Him?"

"Yes," returned some people, all murmuring like one voice. 

"Hear Jesus who speaks to you, each and every one in this room. Remember to praise Him, His Holy Name: ‘In God will I praise his word: in the Lord will I praise his word.” He got louder. “In God have I put my trust: _I will not be afraid what man can do unto me_.’ Fear no man! Fear not a single one! ‘Thy vows are upon me, O God: I will render praises unto thee. For thou hast delivered my soul from death: wilt not thou deliver my feet from falling, that I may walk before God in the light of the living?’ It is clear that you must settle your fears, leave them at the feet of the Most Holy Lord, how much he cares – the Word of the Lord, people! Now, I know that it is a short piece, but the good teacher has prepared a word,” a bit of scattered applause. “I invite Mr. Crowder up. Please, Mr. Crowder.”

Boyd rose to the swelling applause. Raylan couldn’t tell if he had been noticed in the back. At the front was the posse, at least the doctor and the mayor and Hagens. As he them passed Boyd shook the preacher’s hand then got up. When Boyd pressed his hands to the pulpit the energy kicked up. Raylan felt the flicker over his skin like there was the powder set for a light.

“Thank you Pastor Browne,” the outlaw clapped. He was showing all those teeth. “Pastor Browne all the way from Memphis, we are very honored to have you here on this blessed day.” He stepped to the side, exposed. “Are we not supposed to fear? We fear the wondrous splendor of God, do we not? We fear the World – the confusion of the world and its worldliness. I do not want to focus on that though. I ask you to keep in you mind this key piece of scripture: ‘What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee.’ Again, ‘What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee.’ When we are babies, we do not know the world. It is so strange to us – all movement and noise! Then we get older, like the children here, we got to 5, 6 even and we start to notice the World. We know the World and we know we are on a locomotive. Yes, we are on a locomotive and it is moving so fast, so fast! We see the speed and we know the locomotive is running, it is out of control. So, we ask our parents, ‘Are we on a runaway locomotive?’ They love us and they would not lie yet they say ‘No’. If this is a locomotive there must be an engineer. We leave our parents,” Boyd pointed to the back of the room, a Bible in hand like a baton, “and we go to the front. As we go to the front, we start to get mad – we get angry – because all around us we see the other passengers. We see them and they are afraid. We get to the front and we bang on the door and we say, ‘Open up! This thing is out of control! The people are scared!’. The door finally opens and there is the locomotive engineer. He looks you right in the eye and he has tears in his. You know he knows how scared everyone is; he feels all the fear of everyone, all their pain too, and he’s doing everything he can to make it better. You look at him and say, ‘How can I help? What do I do?’ He says, ‘Who are you?’”

Boyd thumps his chest. “You say, ‘I’m Boyd’ or ‘I’m Raylan’ to which he says, ‘Go back.’ Says, ‘Go back,’ – ‘Please. Tell everybody…” Raylan can see the moment Boyd spots him because he falters. The energy slips away like a shawl. Boyd looks lowered. Hell, he looks fucking guilty. “He says, ‘Tell them I’m doing everything I can, and you go and you tell everybody I love them. That I am doing the best I can to bring this to an end.’ He says, ‘Come and find me – please, if you need to talk, I am here.’ So, you go back into the locomotive. You go back into life, back into that locomotive. You live in that, in the knowledge that God is there – He is there and is doing the best that He can. Just was you need God, just as you are in pain, so does God need you and so is God in pain. And so you live, that’s just what you do. You live.”

Raylan couldn’t take anymore. Was just like Boyd to air everyone's shit if it suited him. God damn it. He exited quietly and walked to the scrub at the bottom of the path in sight of the road. In the air there was the rise and fall of some hymn but he don’t care enough to listen hard. He didn’t feel like gong home and town would be dead, not that he was in the mood to talk any more shit, so he takes the only path left before him and sets off to climb to the knife edge of the ridge. Halfway up he stopped, could see the shine of Martans Fork huddled with buildings. Can see Black Mountain like a memory before they cut the top of it off and let it run into the water, stripped it down to the dirt. Split it open and chocked the air dark. The leaves dappled the sun over the damp litter. As he walked it throwed up the stink of the soft rot. On his nape the sun was hot so he shrugged off his jacket and carried it over one shoulder, walking out of Mount Pleasant the same way he walked in.  

* * *

_Now_

Winona checked her teeth under the harsh lights. It washed out her skin and cut deep lines. One was blueish and buzzing loudly. Not like there was money sunk anywhere else in the building. Her cheeks had rounded a month ago, made her whole face swollen. With a brush she buffed on some covering then shut the compact. According to her wristwatch it was creeping towards five so she was taking a breather. The whole day had been packed with civil cases. One was a merger which was boring but worked her to the bone. Her left heel was pinching her toes because her sock had slipped halfway down her foot. On the counter her phone chirped.

It was Gary, en route from the office and looking for dinner suggestions. Winona wanted some cookie dough ice cream with a side of nachos. Instead she asked for Chinese takeout reminding him to get extra wontons. While she made her way back to the pool he agreed. She almost ran in to Deputy Marshal Brooks in the hall. 

“Sorry.” Winona shot her a smile. She almost collided into the water fountain. “Excuse me.”

“It’s alright,” Brooks made eye contact with the bugle Winona had been carrying for a while but didn’t ask. “How have you been?”

“Oh, good.” Winona’s hand drifted down anyway and she found herself saying, “The baby’s good too. You?” She patted her stomach as she asked. 

Brooks smiled tightly. “I’m just fine. Long hours, but you know.” If she was less collected Winona would assume she was embarrassed by the reference. 

“You’re right,” nothing to do but be polite. “I don’t envy you.” 

“Right.” Brooks rested a hand in her belt where her gun would hang. Winona gripped her small handbag tightly. “Right.” She repeated. They were still smiling at each other. Winona stepped to the side. 

“My ride is on the way...” She tried to not walk off. 

Brooks raised an eyebrow. 

“Gary,” Winona said. “My husband.” As if he was anything else. 

“Heard about him.” Books was gracious. “Don’t let me keep you.”

Winona left her between the water fountain and the elevators. She was almost free and clear when Vasquez snagged her. 

“I just need a moment of your time, Mrs. Hawkins.” He was hanging out his office door. Seemed like he had run a brush through his hair. Winona could see the sharp gaps from his comb. 

Winona had no choice to follow him deeper into his office. The couch was new, a piebald cowhide. When offered Winona took a seat on it. Some hairs clung to her skirt. There was the smell of leather on her hands. David dragged his chair out from behind his desk. 

“I’ll make this quick, I promise.” He clasped his hands in front of himself. “I suggest you to get together an itemized list of everything you got from the Givens estate and account of where you spent all that money you received from it as well.”

She was too offended to be shocked. “Can I ask why I need to turn over this information?” Winona crossed her arms. She could feel her bulge like stone. “Do I need a lawyer?”

Vasquez raised a hand - placating but stern. “This has nothing to do with you directly, Winona. I’m just suggesting you have that ready in case someone else comes asking.”

“Like who?”

“Treasury.” He was grim. 

Winona felt her elbows under her fingers. “Can you tell me what’s happening?”

David looked from her to the closed door. “I can tell you we have already spoken to the other claimants of the estate.”

She swallowed. “I think I need a drink.”

“I have water or pop,” David checked under his desk. “Got cola and lemon-lime.”

“Water’s fine.”

She waited without moving as he left and came back. The water must have come from the hall fountain. It was warm, metallic enough to taste bloody. 

They sipped while not making eye contact. 

David broke first. “You understand what I’m saying?”

“I do,” Winona checked her phone. Gary had just pulled into the side lot. It was a three minute walk. She asked him to wait for ten, just in case. “Have you spoken to them? The other beneficiaries?”

“I called one and left Hel- the other a voice message.”

“Anyone else supposed to get things that didn’t?”

David looked suspicious. “Like who?”

“I don't know,” Winona replied. “I’m just fishing.”

“All the assists were given in the order and portions as expressed in the will, after the debts were paid off.” Vasquez was locked on her like a snake. “Did you hear different?”

“I didn’t.” Winona pulled out her phone again. “While this had been fun, David, I have to go. My husband is waiting in the parking lot with dinner.”

He stood with her and got the door. “Have a good evening, Mrs. Hawkins, and please stay in touch.”

“Sure,” Winona give him that plastic smile. “I’ve got you on speed dial, David. Say ‘hi’ to the girls for me.”

* * *

  _Then_

Summer had hit with the full force of the season. Heat dripped from the hillsides, kept Boyd up with the damp night heat which forced him out of bed and across the cold wooden floor. Raylan had been gone for weeks now. With the school shuttered for the next few months he found himself striking out to talk to the families further out from Mt. Pleasant, taking care to call on Mrs. Lewis when he was nearby. She had refused the charity and the invitation to pie dinners.

“I love my children, which is why I let you come,” she told him over a plate of beans. “It’s no good having them go there to be shamed. I won’t have it.”

Boyd didn’t argue that. “These are nice beans, Mrs. Lewis,” he said.

She frowned. “It’s not like you to be this polite.” She crossed her arms. From nearby was the chattering of some of the girls, who had gone up into the garden to cut back some plants for dinner. The sky was a pale lacquered blue scalloped by the trees in deep green contrast. Boyd said nothing, just watched her watch him. The winter had been hard on her. She said the children’s father had fallen ill. He was reduced to a slow hobble, muscles wasted so that his shirt hung on his frame. By the woodpile he was sitting on an upright log watching the boy chop. Boyd set the plate aside.

“I just wanted some company of those familiar to me, Miss Lewis. I apologize if I have anyway imposed upon your home or pressed you into my company. There have been those who do not enjoy it…”

“Heard the Marshal left.” Mrs. Lewis squinted towards the slope of the mountain.

“Heard right,” Boyd said, then, “How is the reading coming along?”

She took the change of conversation easy. “They’re doing fine. Ha'int seen them struggle with it much.”

Boyd stood. “That’s good.” He stepped into the yard. Where the sky was closest to the sun it was washed to white. No clouds to mute the harsh feeling but the woods were cool enough when he would get under them. “I’m going to swing South then parallel here to Mt. Pleasant. If you need anything…”

“It won’t be necessary.” Mrs. Lewis was looking over her girls. “So, gowan Mr. Crowder. Get to where you’re wanting to go.”

Boyd settled his hat then mounted Zelda. Her fur was blood-hot to the touch from the sun. The air was thick with the stink of her – horse-smell and hay and oiled leather. It was going to be a long day, trail dragging him all the way to Holmes Mill. He had promised Raylan not to dig. Had promised to not dig at that sore but Givens had left and taken those promises with him.

 

* * *

 

  _Now_

The man was cuffed and the thin chin was run through a ring on the table. Overhead the light hummed, was white enough it bleached away the colors. Under it the papers in the file glowed. Art readjusted his glasses. 

Parnell and a few of the Staties were in the observation room. There was also a guy from county lock-up with the master key. 

Art was expecting a redneck shitkicker. He was a little disappointed - not record, no tattoos, unfailingly polite especially to the lone female officer. He went by Alvin Coburn but he was officially a ghost. He had never been to the doctor or dentist. An impromptu test showed he couldn't read either. Taking his clothing into account Art was prepared to believe he was from from another time. 

The room was cool. Somewhere an AC murmured while there was a slight breeze inside the gray walls. The chill kept down Coburn's smell as well. He had refused a shower and no one pressed him on it. Art would make sure he was hosed down at some point. There was dirt he could see, for God's sake. Half the folder was for show anyway, swiped from a ream from the floor's Xerox machine. 

"Marshal?" Coburn was all smooth, quiet charm. "Would I be getting out of here anytime soon? I ain't committed any offence, far as I know, unless walking is one."

"Well, Alvin," Art groaned as he shifted in his chair, "it is actually a crime to walk along a highway here in Kentucky. Mighty dangerous with all those vehicles you might have seen whizzing part your head."

"Those machines?" Coburn shrugged. "I was not concerned by them. A tool, even an industrial one, is still slave to man."

"That's an idea." Art replied. "Now, would you like to tell me your relationship with Boyd Crowder?"

 

**Author's Note:**

> There is much to American history, it being new and explosive - hell, even tangible compared to that of the histories in Europe and Asia. Harlan is the bed of unionism and workers rights for American in ways that are both unparalleled and forgotten. Some liberties have been taken about details in technology and jargon; the aim of this work is the feeling of Harlan before the coal came up and the companies came down. Some stories are third-hand telling found in the critically acclaimed book "They Say in Harlan County: An Oral History" by Alessandro Portelli.


End file.
